


Close Your Eyes

by redphlox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: AU, F/M, Wedding Planner AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redphlox/pseuds/redphlox
Summary: It was a simple childhood pact: marry each other at 30 if they’re both still single. But after Maka leaves Soul at the altar, the two grow distant until she receives flowers and an unsigned card that reads “I still love you" just as he returns to town. Suddenly working together again to plan one last wedding, neither can deny their feelings for one another – and it might be better that way. Wedding Planner AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please accept this wedding planner AU as my resbang 2017 entry! Shoutout to professor-maka and jaded-envy for all their betaing help and love and support! Couldn’t have done this without them! Also, please take time to look at mrsashketchum’s accompanying art pieces for this fic - she’s outrageously talented and is the best resbang partner ever! Please shower her in love, she is so lovely!

Soul closes his eyes and continues to wait for someone who isn't coming. Though he promises himself not to feel anything until he has no other choice, he still leaves the tiniest space to mourn the fact that Maka won't hear the vows he's kept boarded up since they made the pact. The part of him that pines for her with feverish loyalty can’t accept this false alarm, this _almost_. Hell is reality sinking in and reminding him that Maka _does_ love him, but _only_ as a friend.

Honestly, he can't afford to carry these feelings around anymore.

But that’s always been the problem, _his_ problem - he doesn't know where or how to drop them.

He's trying to resign himself to the truth, to make the announcement and send the ever hopeful guests home, when careful footfalls come up beside the wicker chair he had dragged behind the tables hoarding the high piles of wedding gifts.

“ _Someone’s_ going to have an aneurysm when she sees you've been sticking your finger in the wedding cake to scrape off the icing,” Wes’s voice says, though his usual warmth and joviality is now tenuous, bordering _fake,_ its intent overprotective.  

“She's not coming,” Soul replies, sounding grainy to his own ears - like there's sand in his throat, and the more he clears it away, the more it avalanches back to choke him. Here he is, caught between the threat of sternum splitting misery and wanting to foolishly stay put for as many hours or days as it might take for Maka to arrive.

He’s a goner.  

There's a pause that bleeds one-third pity and two-thirds concern, but Soul rejects all of it with well practiced, counterfeit stoicism. He can feel sorry for himself in the comfort of his own mind, _alone_ , thank you. But then Wes heaves a shaky, empathetic sigh that jars Soul into clenching his jaw as a defense mechanism.

Just like that, the charade collapses in on itself.

“I'm sorry, Soul. I'm so _fucking_ sorry...”

Betrayal is the pain blooming into something distant and slight instead of mercifully absent. Blaming Wes for the breach of emotional safety consoles Soul for the briefest of seconds until he realizes he’s never fully mastered the art of casual desensitization in the first place.

“Me too...”

Wes, an optimist through and through, switches to praising the venue to mitigate the tension hanging between them. “It’s beautiful, exquisite even, you’ve outdone yourself…” He stops, probably to glance around at the miniature lanterns hanging from the tree branches, taking in the millions of LED string lights woven into sheer clothed canopy tents. “I bet you're the one who came up with the ‘Starry Night’ theme.”

“I don’t remember,” Soul replies honestly. Maybe the idea had been a mutual understanding from the beginning, when they were fifteen year olds swearing to stay in each other’s lives until it came time for one of them to voyage beyond. Pledging to get married if neither found their soul mate by thirty had been innocent, but now they’re twenty-six-ish and way in over their heads, jumping the gun after catching the wedding fever from their clients.

To make things worse, he’s not sure who proposed first either, but maybe they had decided that together, too.

Beside him, Wes talks and talks and and _talks_. About everything, about nothing. Skirting around Maka’s name like it’s a trigger word, delaying the inevitable conversation about ending tonight’s festivities, misunderstanding Soul’s need to drown in solitude because it’s both cathartic and self-maiming. Nothing could ever change the fact he’s a little bit of a masochist and would trade all of his senses for Maka Albarn. His softness for her is a curse he's not willing to break.

After all, Soul perpetually longs to be with her, even when she’s near. It’s so _bad_ and always has been, even back then. When they were teenages, thoughts about her increased tenfold when his head hit the pillow at night, and even when he did fall asleep, the ache would wake him at odd, brief intervals. At times he wished an ax would divide his skull in half so he would _stop_ and know peace. It hurt, feeling so much felt like being cremated, because he knew deep down it was in vain, all horribly one-sided, and yet he still desperately hoped to someday sleep beside her at night. There’s something beautiful and forlorn about how the darkness closes in and erases everything except the things and people within his reach, and that’s why it made sense to marry Maka at 11:11 pm.

But the time came and went. She's not here, and Soul doesn’t blame her one bit.

“It’s okay Wes, really,” Soul lies, breathing in the cool fall air. He wants the season to strip him bare like it does the trees, to turn him off until he’s ready to be reset into someone new and whole. “I’m not fragile, you can talk about her. We were just getting married _as friends_. She probably didn't want to throw away her chance of meeting ‘The One.’ I'm not mad, just kind of… disappointed, I guess.”

“This seems like quite the setup for something that didn't mean much,” Wes counters gently. “A small wedding with your closest family and friends-”

“Shut up Wes, you don’t know your left from your right and your idea of a relationship is loving them and leaving them.”

“Such hostility, as always,” his brother muses, his ensuing whistle coated with a hint of relieved appreciation for the trademark snark, as if it serves as a positive sign of Soul’s road to recovery. “Whatever you say, Little Bro.”

“I’m allowed to be cool about this, okay? Yeah, it sucks. This was going to be awesome for us for tax purposes, but I want her to be happy.”

And he’s selfish, because he also wanted to kiss her. _God_ , he would sell his right arm on Ebay for three cents to kiss her right now. He would rip it off himself for _free_.

“Ah-huh,” Wes agrees, giving Soul the impression that he’s not intending to let this subject die like he usually does, and Soul braces himself for relentless, meddlesome, prying until Wes says, “And you two already live together anyway, so nothing would have changed by getting married... Right?”

It’s not much of a consolation, but the air is thick with Wes’s unsaid words, a confirmation that the comment was meant as an opportunity for Soul to open up. He won’t, of course - _repress and don’t tell anyone you’re depressed_ is his motto - but it touches Soul that his older brother has come to his rescue without being called and won’t leave until he's one hundred percent sure of Soul's stability.

His question met with no answers, Wes tries again: “And since Mom and Dad are footing the bill for all this you didn’t lose any money, so really, it’s just more experience for your business… Right?”

No, _no_ , none of that ever mattered to Soul, who had trailed behind Maka with his parents’ credit card in his pocket as they picked out tablecloths together for _their_ wedding. Surrendering to his impulses, he had rested a supportive hand on the small of her back when she grimaced under indecisive strain. Green eyes had locked into his as she shuddered under his lingering touch, and he could have _sworn_ they were resonating, caught up in each other, _waiting ._

But instead of confessing, he looked away and let the moment and the energy pass.

He messed _up_.

“The business is fine how it is, Wes, and so am I,” he says, and the more he denies it the more he’s sure the worst is yet to come.

“You don’t _look_ fine, Soul, you look heartbroken!”

_Mirror mirror on the wall,_ sings through Soul’s mind bitterly.

“And you’re so emotionally constipated you don’t realize you’re hurting, Baby Bro!”

“The pain in my chest is because of _you_ being up my butt like a ringworm.” Soul almost laughs at his own joke, but busting his guts would probably result in Wes calling an ambulance straight to the ER and commandeering the tranquilizers to inject Soul himself, so that’s stifled, too.

Cue a frustrated sigh from Wes, then the crunch of leaves beneath shoes, like he’s kicking the ground. “... Are you still going to LA?”

“I don’t know, Wes. I have to talk to Maka, I don’t… think she’ll want to go with me anymore. And I don’t want to leave her. Or the business. Y’know? I’m her partner, and uh… I don’t know.”

More sand, clotting Soul’s throat.  

Wes doesn’t miss a beat. He’s not ruthless, just stubbornly trying to prove a point and drill through Soul’s bulletproof denial. “You can still go on the honeymoon together. It wasn’t real anyway... right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Soul musters because he can’t let Wes win. “Mom and Dad took care of that with their money too, so it’s no big deal, like you said.”

But that’s a lie too because it _is_ a big deal to everyone, and that’s precisely why he can’t admit the sinking feeling in his stomach makes him want to stop existing. Rumor among their friends and family has it that he and Maka are soul mates in every shape and form, but everyone's so _wrong_ , so _wrong,_ and he’s the only stupid one who fell for his best friend.

Still, neither he nor Maka had hesitated to accept his parent’s offer to cover the wedding, or bothered to correct them when they chimed, “Anything for our favorite couple.”

Even Soul forgets they aren’t - aren’t _like that_. Ironing and folding her laundry when she forgets to take it out of the dryer actually relaxes him, and buying furniture together tends to turn into planning their first home _together_ , complete with the gaming area, workout room, and spacious backyard for water balloon fights. They leave the light on if one of them will be home late, with Soul coming out of his room to greet her when he hears the door knob jiggle because he couldn’t sleep anyway. Usually he finds Maka waiting on the couch, reading a book or curled up under a blanket, snoring.

It had felt so… _real_.

“Best reason to marry you is getting to hear you promise to love me forever,” Maka had said, stepping close to him, Soul too mesmerized by the unusual softness - the _insecurity_ \- in her tone to spout some smartass remark and put her at ease.

Maybe he had messed up then, too.

Intimacy with Maka looks like _that_ sometimes, like something unsure and taboo, and he’s not sure what to think of it. There’s nothing more platonic than cooking for his best friend while she sits at the table and tests the temperature of the bubbling footbath by dipping her toes in, recounting how her bad day had started off by both her heel and her patience breaking as she fought the wind for control of her umbrella. Rubbing her feet shouldn’t be interrupted by accidental kicks and nervous explanations that she’s ticklish and _Soul your hands are too callousy for my calves_.

She’s too sensitive to him for some reason. Freezing up under his touch, softening, flinching, shuddering. _Barely_ , only enough for him to register in the back of his mind. Like the tablecloth incident, or the mornings he drowsily helps bobby pin her hair into submission and her shoulders hike up at his touch. The vague awkwardness is a barrier between them, a flaw in their friendship -

 “Do you want to give her more time?”

_Yes_ , _God yes._  
  
But Soul’s throat finally seals shut with the finality of the words he _can’t_ bring himself to articulate: “No, it’s a lost cause.” He’s been buried alive by that grainy, god forsaken sand, so there’s no need to open his eyes to confront his feelings or _move_.

The musician in Wes knows silence carries more meaning than sound. “Want me to tell everyone?”

A stranger might confuse this noble offering for brotherly love, but the resentment bubbling in Soul proves anything _but_ , at least on his part. He can’t help but dislike Wes - perfect, perfect _Wes_ , gifted with luck and charm and _poise_ , always getting what he wants, cruising by in life without a strife or self doubt.

“No, I have to tell everyone…” Gulping down his old fear of crowds is instinct now. “I will. It has to be me.”

Wes’s gentleness and unconditional support is equal to a mercy killing. “Then open your eyes, Soul.”

“Give me time.” It comes out as a desolate plea, so Soul corrects it by tacking on a forcibly crude, “ _Shit,_ let me be. You’re giving me hemorrhoids.”

Wes walks away with such respect of Soul's grief that it stings and bruises. Pushing people away isn't the answer, but then again, he's not sure what the question was, or if one had ever existed.

Soul stays in the wicker chair for another hour, maybe two, hoping to feel the earth rotate beneath him and thus bind him to this moment's brevity. Then he stands on his feet, opening his eyes, letting the melancholy sink into his bones as he wanders back to the reception area with his hands in his pockets.

No one has left. Maybe they all wordlessly agreed to give Maka a chance to change her mind. Even Blake - lovably insufferable, lewd, overzealous Blake - is slumped over at his table, snoring and drooling faithfully in wait for the wedding to begin. Next to him, Kim has a flirtatious arm draped over a blithely flushed Jackie’s shoulders as they admire the twinkling lights overhead, though it’s nothing compared to the red coloring Tsubaki’s face. Glowing, she bites down a smitten smile at Wes as he whispers something by her ear, the pair tucked away in their own intimate corner.

_That’s new_ , Soul thinks, harboring no jealousy or ill will. Maka’s best friend and his brother hadn’t met until yesterday at the rehearsal dinner - not that Soul had eyes for anyone but Maka and her pinched, glowing cheeks, worries about his sweaty palms overridden by all the hand holding they had been doing.

Maybe she’s coming after all -

When he makes eye contact with Liz, though, he _knows_. Never one to hang idly by, she had left in search of Maka hours ago, but it seems she returned empty-handed except for deep-seated, second-hand heartbreak and an apparent pledge to avoid him, probably loath to confirm Soul’s fears and losses.

Bravely, and dissociating to protect himself, Soul steps onto the raised platform where he and Maka were supposed to say their vows.

“She’s not coming,” Soul says loudly, meeting the shocked stares with a meticulously crafted barren expression. Busying his hands with undoing his tie and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his longsleeve helps ebb his self-consciousness. “Thanks for staying and for the gifts, but take them with you when you leave… and take as much food as you can.”

A disturbed murmur breaks out amongst the guests, slow at first but then igniting like a wildfire - _we can wait_ , some insist, _don’t give up on her,_ and what is akin to a brick slamming into his face: _but you love each other so much._

“ _Soul!_ ” a weepy Spirit howls over the scattered protests, rising from his seat like he’s about to march up and reprimand Soul for his brute impatience. It’s not like Soul to give up when it comes to Maka Albarn.

Brushing off his ex future father-in-law with a lethargic wave isn’t meant to be rude, but it’s three or four in the morning and Soul is a volatile, useless, crushed mess. All he can do now is follow the blaring intuition that Maka Albarn will be at their apartment when he eventually stumbles through the door. She probably never left. Soul should have helped her get ready that morning, even if it broke tradition, but she’s too independent for her own good and had resolved to get ready for the wedding by herself, and that had been that.

Bad luck follows when the groom sees the bride in her dress before the wedding, but in his sleep-deprived, deeply devoted haze, Soul forgets about all that superstitious crap when he’s standing in the doorway half an hour later. Sniffles reach him through the dark apartment, and he sprints to the bathroom instinctively. Knees hugged to her chest, Maka is huddled in the empty tub, face buried in the frumpled dresskirt tumbled over her legs.

“Maka?”

She lifts her head in response, loosely styled curls falling over her swollen eyes. “Hi,” she hiccups, covering her mouth, crumbling into a mute wail. “I'm so _s-orry_.”

He rushes over, dropping so hard to the tiled floor that lightning-like pain splits through his kneecaps and blasts up and down his thighs and calves, ignoring it to cup her face. “What happened - why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

Helpless, he leans over her as she shakes in the effort to barricade more tears in, holding her tight to absorb a fraction of the anguish bottled up inside her - this is his fault, _his fault_.

“My necklace… I  messed it up,” she says, holding up the silver chain he gifted her because neither were fond of the idea of engagement rings. He puts his hand over her wobbly one. “It was-was walking around, tr-trying to finish getting read-y… and it got ca-caught. On the doorknob. And I yanked without thinking and - I _broke_ it.”

“S’okay,” he reassures, squeezing her closed hand. “It’s okay.”

“And then I thought, o-okay, I’ll… put it in a safe place. On my desk. But-but, then.” She heaves into a coughing fit before sputtering on: “I spilled the ink on myself! The ink I used for the cal-calligraphy on the invit...ations.”

Numb and helpless, Soul strokes her hair, disregarding the sharp pressure of his hip bones pressing against the bathtub’s edges. He should climb in beside her, but that would require defying the gravity uniting them.

“I ruined _everything_ ,” she cries, ironing out the curve in her spine for him to survey the front of the bodice where the dye mars the intricate patterned lace and silk fabric underneath it. The perfectionist in Maka must have blown a fuse when this happened, and Soul inwardly berates himself for not being there to help calm her down.

“And when I was looking u-up how to… remove the stain, I, I got to thinking,” she goes on lowly, fingers digging into his shoulders like she’s desperate to ground herself. “I… couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do it,” he echoes, an eerie composure possessing him.

“Mhm.” The resolve in her glassy eyes hypnotizes. “I couldn’t marry you."

It’s surreal crouching here with a disheveled Maka at this illusory hour, listening to her list the reasons she _didn't_ choose him. “Couldn’t marry me…

“I can’t move away.” She breaks into tears again, wincing, chin rumpling. “Can’t move to LA with you. Not when my ma-mama is moving back home. I can’t…”

“That’s okay,” he says, and it really is - she could leave him at the altar again and he would be grateful she even said yes.

“And I can’t move my business from Death City, Soul. I’m _scared_.”

_Her_ business. Oh yeah - wedding planning had been _her_ dream, and he had followed along because he advocates her happiness so much that he sometimes can’t tell his ambitions apart from hers. His aspirations amounted to a dropping out a semester shy of completing his sound engineering degree and then accepting Wes’s offer to hook him up with a buddy who would take Soul on as an apprentice. Uprooting her life so that he won’t isolate himself in LA while trying his hand in the field reeks of selfishness. She had an anxiety attack over it while he _sat and waited around_.

“And I _do_ love you,” she says, tugging him closer by the hair. Their foreheads touch, and she rakes her nails through his scalp. “I don't want to hurt you. I… Because I love you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with me.”

“Of course not, Maka.” Protests surge into his brain with deadly force, like a receded tide returning in the aftermath of a hurricane. “You could never hold me back - you’re my best friend. I _want_ to be with you.”

But Maka shakes her head, looking like she’s torn and disappointed, brows knit. “No, Soul, I _love_ you.”

The sand stops him from saying it back. He wishes she didn’t love him at all if it’s going to hurt this much, but he takes it back, takes it back; he’d never trade any of her affection for anything less or more.

Maka’s face breaks in front of him, his heart breaks, and so does the calm.

“Go to LA without me.” She’s hyperventilating now, telling him in choppy fragments to better himself and follow his dreams, face in the crook of his neck. “This was a... bad idea. I'm _so sorry_.”

They cry together. There is an element of sadness at having reached an end. It's over, and the feeling of teetering off a edge lurks in the following weeks as he collects his things into his suitcases and rolls them to the airport on a Monday morning, a one way ticket in his hand.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.


	2. the last to know

_ I still love you, _ the unsigned card Maka plucks from the bouquet reads. The windchimes above her office door slow to fragmented plinks as she careens on suddenly wobbly legs, hip catching the corner of her desk. She stays like that, transfixed on the minimalistic font. Whoever delivered the flowers must have  _ just _ came and went; it's possible she missed them by seconds, and the near meeting leaves her shaken, hyperaware of her aloneness.

After all, today marks a year, a whole year.  _ Only _ a year. There are more yet to come, more to face with imitated bravery. Anniversaries had never meant much until this one, though it’s nothing to celebrate. Accepting that there’s no going back to how things used to be has been like uselessly trying to wiggle out from under a boulder - she still naively clings onto the slightest semblance of hope.

And so, she takes this anonymous gesture as a  _ sign _ .

She clears her throat and calls for someone who isn’t there. “... Soul? Was this you?”

She’s still, waiting for a response she knows won’t come. Admiring the flowers and the vase doesn’t reveal anything except the glaring fact that she’s  _ stuck _ on her best friend. These feelings are here to stay. Part of her knows she won’t be able to set them aside, and trying to rearrange them to make room for a potential someone else,  _ anything else, _ has been the last resort. But as she slips the card beneath her black desk mat - face up, so she can slide it out and overthink between clients - she burns with the sense that neither the timing nor the wording are a coincidence.

X

“Did he tell you?” Wes asks with a knowing grin, swishing sweet tea around in his wine glass.  

It’s hours later, and a tired-eyed Maka glances behind him at Tsubaki for a clue, but the latter busies herself with cutting the cheesecake Wes baked into even pieces and moving them to plates carefully, taking her precious time. Despite the gut instinct that this conversation is taking a wrong turn, Maka’s curiosity peaks. “Did who tell me what, Wes?”

Leaning back in his chair and tipping it on its back legs, Wes winks at her from across the  dinner table. “Soul’s coming back into town.”

Her jaw slackens, mouth forming a perfect ‘o.’ “When?”

A flash of unnerved alarm disrupts his usual cool nonchalance, but he’s soon carding a hand through his hair and heaving a sigh that means to convey his younger brother is an incorrigible but adorable dork. Suave, never stumbling - that’s Wes Evans, producer mogul and lover of social events. “He didn’t tell you himself?”

“No,” she says, the revelation a betrayal she's struggling to deaden. Today’s not her day. It wasn’t last year, and it won’t be next year, or the next, or the next, or the next... She’s not sure she can handle it.

“New Year's Eve, for my party.” Wes brings the chair down on all four legs with a  _ thump  _ for emphasis and raises his glass, pinky in the air as he sips. “Flying in just to see little ol’ decrepit me.”

“That’s nice,” Maka manages as Tsubaki sets a plate in front of her, spellbound by the little flecks of strawberry in the puree drizzled over the cheesecake slice.

“And you too, of course, Maka. He said-”

Abrupt silence prompts her to snap out of it and look his way. At the wrong time, of course. Catching Wes plant a kiss on Tsubaki’s jawline as she swoops in with his dessert doesn’t spark jealousy, but the moment is a little  _ too _ intimate, like Maka is intruding, witnessing something she isn’t meant to see. That doubt deepens when Wes scoops a giggling Tsubaki into his lap, hugging her close before praising her cake cutting skills.

“You go first,” he drawls, his laughter melding with his girlfriend’s.

Something about them sharing the fork grosses Maka out as much as it endears. Feeling forgotten, Maka shifts on the pillowed chair, averting her gaze elsewhere until Wes latches back onto the topic about his annual New Year’s Eve Bash between feeding himself and Tsubaki.

“There’s going to be fireworks and a special grand finale,” he sums up, smiling so hard the smallest indentation forms on his left cheek, the brief resemblance to Soul and his trademark lone dimple catching Maka off guard.

Tunnel vision. Her gut sinks like she’s trapped in a falling elevator, the impact coming too soon. She rests her fingertips on the table for balance, the adrenaline rush and blind desperation causing her to lean forward eagerly.  “Did he mention me?”

Wes hands a perplexed Tsubaki full control of their fork, not missing a beat. “Soul specifically said he was looking forward to seeing you again.”

She doesn’t believe it. Although she and Soul still maintain constant communication, their typical enthusiasm is subdued, censored by her lingering  _ what-if _ ’s and something she can’t decipher on his part. Disappointment? Melancholy? It’s never anger. The irony that she reads too much into his messages and emojis but comes up empty never fails to frustrate. She’s not sure what sign she’s looking for, but all she knows is even video calling can't replicable that special connection.

Wasting time thinking about it too much corrodes the gears in the back of her mind. At night, she’ll huddle in bed and text him, her phone’s bright screen cutting through the room’s darkness, until a blink suddenly tricks her into sleeping. Mornings are dedicated to rereading their messages in an attempt to see a speck of their relationship  _ before _ , wondering all the while if it’s the same for him as she sends a good morning text.

A little voice murmurs that a day will come when he doesn’t reply, since their interactions are becoming more brief and far in between. Distance burns bridges. And what goes around comes around - she had  _ left  _ him at the altar. Now it’s his turn to leave, permanently, like her mama did when Papa broke her heart too many times.

Relationships -  _ people  _ \- are hard to keep.

Another more rational part of her argues that this isn’t the first time she and Soul have been apart. Attending colleges on opposite sides of the state both challenged their friendship and strengthened it. He had driven hours to see her on weekend, and she had sent him back with care packages and video called him without fail, so maybe this is another rough patch and they'll end up okay.

But it’s not like that this time.

That was then, this is now.

“I didn’t know you were even having a party. Or that I was invited,” Maka says when she realizes she’s been too quiet, tapping her fingertips on the table mat.

“My baby brother’s best girl is always on my list.”

When Wes beams again, a little of Soul’s lone dimple comes through.  

Maka isn’t ready for New Year’s Eve.

X

_ “What would you do if you were left at the altar?” _

A caller with a nasally country accent shouts, “ _ GOD I WOULD JUST DIE-” _

Liz sacrifices freshly painted nails in her endeavor to fling herself over their salon-esque setup on the area rug and snatch her phone off the speaker dock. She writhes around, screeching to drown out the radio talk show while she fails to exit out of the app. Ten seconds equal a lifetime when it involves listening to the caller go on about their relentless torment and shame at having their best friend ‘ditch’ them.

“... Jackie was saying their ratings weren’t doing well, maybe the show will be cancelled,” Kim says into the awkward lull, setting the example to ignore what they just heard by resuming to file her nails. No one questions Kim’s uncharacteristic lapse of faith in her wife’s career. It's a flimsy excuse, a lie to soften the apprehensive mood.

Maka stands up, swelling with pride at controlling the agony climbing up her throat like mutant vines. Looks like she'll take a hiatus from listening to Jackie’s show, especially if she’s going to be attacked like this. “I’m going home.”

“Stay, we still have to marathon  _ The Powerpuff Girls _ and analyze all the feminism in it,” Patti says, throwing herself on the floor just like her older sister, except this time to wrap her arms around Maka’s ankles and calves.

“I’m tired.” What Maka doesn’t add is that she might cry.

“That’s okay, you can sleep over! It’s only seven, the night is young.” Liz jumps up with the grace of a leopard, hands on Maka’s shoulders, gently trying to push her back down.

“I’ll stay too,” Kim chimes in, smiling too wide up at Maka. “I’ll order pizza.”

“Thanks, but I already ate at Wes’s place. It’s been a long day.” And her head throbs, and her heart aches, and she’s seen and heard enough. Time for this day to be  _ over _ . “I want to go  _ home _ .”

“But it’s not Friends Date Night without you,” Patti says.

“It’s not Friends Date Night without So - I mean, Tsu,” She snatches her purse up from the TV stand. Then, when she both hears and feels the deep-seated, unexplored resentment in her own words, she’s glued to the spot, hand frozen on the door knob. “I just mean… everything’s different now.”

Soul’s name hangs there, unsaid.

The girls are staring, but Maka can’t turn to meet their eyes.

Liz speaks up first. “Don't worry, we get it. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll see you all later…”

X

“How did  _ you _ get in here?”

“I didn’t break in this time Angel, your mama let me in before she left,” her papa explains, head in the fridge, perusing. Glass clinks together, and she images her papa moving the jam and pickle jars aside in search of some leftover she threw into tupperware and forgot.

“ _ Mama  _ let you in?”

“Yes, Angel, she told me to tell you she’d be back in a few days.”

Maka throws her purse onto the couch, contemplating leaving and re-entering her apartment to confirm she hasn’t walked into an alternate plane. For the longest, it’s been just Papa, or just Mama, so hearing about them  _ talking _ , much less being in the same room, blindsides Maka every time. Having grown up with only her papa since the age of thirteen thanks to the divorce court granting him full custody, living with her mama as an adult has been a dream come true.

After years of traveling and working as a private investigator, Mama had semi settled down and moved in right after Soul relocated to LA, filling an empty space in Maka’s life. Though ecstatic to bond with her mama over breakfast, shopping sprees, and Netflix marathons, it's still a new adjustment - and mama is  _ still _ gone more often than not.

Maybe it’s wrong, but Maka wishes  _ Papa _ left and Mama  _ stayed _ , wishes Soul were here. If only the three most important people in her life could exist in the same place at the same time.

Trading them back and forth isn’t  _ fair _ .

“I can’t believe Mama even talks to you,” she says, half in a trance as she stands in her living room, distantly noting that there’s a water ring stain on her coffee table.

“She still hates my guts, but she does it because she loves you.” Papa slides around in the kitchen, grabbing butter knives to spread peanut butter on bread he didn’t ask to eat. “We still co-parent, even now.”

“I’m an  _ adult _ . If anything, I take care of you two.”

“That’s exactly what you said when you were three and Nygus asked what you wanted to be for Halloween.” He goes sparkly eyed, hands moving up to his cheeks, reminiscing. “You were too cute.”

Pushing others away isn’t the answer, but she doesn’t know what is. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

“Just seeing how my little Angel is doing today!”

“I’m  _ okay _ ,” she snaps, heat erupting over first her cheeks, then spreading down from her forehead to her chin the way it does when she’s crying. She checks, flicking her finger under her eyes -  _ yep _ , her cheeks are wet.  _ Goddamnit _ . It’s like walking around incognizant of a nosebleed until swiping absentmindedly at her upper lip, the red on her fingers the only sign she’s hurt. Vulnerability -  _ feeling _ \- has been impossible since that night in the bathtub with Soul, but her papa is a begrudging exception.

But still, Maka can’t bring herself to accept the help. “Can you warn me next time you want to drop by?”

“Okay, I’ll call and text,” he promises, putting away the peanut butter and washing the knives, like she isn’t throwing a tantrum at twenty-seven.

“I’m tired,” she sniffles, scraping her forearm across her eyes. “Work was hard today.”

He turns off the faucet and dives back into the fridge, this time with a plan. “Did anything interesting happen?”

“No -  _ yeah _ , and everyone’s acting weird. Babying me. Because of  _ today _ .”

Papa wanders over, sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. He’s learned the art of subtlety over the years. Springing into overbearing papabear mode instantly is a thing of the past, now opting to ease in and test the waters first. No matter how many times she turns him away, though, he stays. Instead of smothering Maka in affection she’ll reject anyway or blabbering on, he wades it out with her, speaking just the right amount.

Old habits die hard. Sometimes he still goes right in for the kill without meaning to.

“Soul waited for you,” he says gently. “And I think he’s probably still waiting. Idiots are loyal like that.”

Tunnel vision again. How dare he bring Soul up out of the blue? How can Papa stand there casually, barefoot and snacking on her food, talking about something  _ no one _ has, no one at all? Life after the wedding went on as usual, with none of their guests questioning her absence, no one asking where her engagement necklace went or why she didn’t move to LA with Soul. Like  _ it _ never happened, like she and Soul never happened.

Papa is always an exception.

“Mama waited for you, and see how that turned out,” Maka retorts, successfully putting a lid on the unwelcomed tears. On and off, like a lightswitch.

A buzz from her purse interrupts what would probably pan out to be a one-sided argument. Maka rushes over to it, thankful for the distraction. Seeing  _ his _ name on her now lit up phone screen almost feels like coming home to him. She’s never been able to control the soft, goofy expression that takes over when he calls, so she turns her back to her papa, walking away.

“Lock up when you leave, Papa.”

“But Maka-”

She closes the door behind her.

“Hey,” she says into her phone, flopping into her unmade bed and tugging the twisted comforter over half of her body. She wrestles to straighten it out - kick-twitches her legs for half a second and then decides the energy expenditure isn’t worth it, actually - before rolling over to her side and digging her head under the pillow.  

“Hi.” There’s a hint of a small smile in his tired voice. “How is?”

What can she say to that? ‘Today's the first anniversary of when I maaaaybe made a mistake and left you hahaha, how are you holding up?’ No, she follows his example and can't, shouldn't, and doesn't bring it up.

“Pissed and hungry. Pungry.”

“Crappy combo,” Soul sympathizes.

The door to her apartment clicks shut, filling Maka with regret that tells her to chase after her papa, to cry on his shoulder so he can make everything better like when she was a little girl and didn't know about his cheating. But that would require opening up, and she doesn’t have any more room for anyone or anything. “It’s okay. How are you doing?”

“I had a weird dream about you,” he says, the words forcing her out from her hiding place under the pillow, sucking in air. “You were some kind of meister and I had the power to turn into a scythe. We were a team, going around collecting evil souls. We were pretty badass.”

“We were like that in real life too, you know. Before - before you moved. And we can be again, because Wes says you’re coming back.”

Soul’s hesitation stings more than it should. “...Yeah, just for a few days. Practically begged me. Says he has a surprise.”

“Yeah, that’s what he told me too.” She can barely understand herself, talking so quickly her words rush out like water out of a burst pipe. “You can stay with me… if you want, that is.”

“Thanks.” Signal a stiff pause where there shouldn’t be one. “Uh, the thing is, I’m already crashing with Jackie. She said I could sleep in her and Kim’s guest bedroom this time instead of on the couch.”

“Oh, I see.” Maka swallows hard, regulating her breathing, chanting inwardly to herself to calm down. So what if she’s the last to know?

“Yeah. I figure they’d at least keep semi quiet if they started getting frisky. Wes would probably try to burst my eardrums.  _ Show off _ . I'm too asexual for that.”

“Same.” Maka bursts with laughter that has nothing to do with his comment and everything to do with the madness checking in to her head like it's a cheap motel. She sobers up at lightning speed when she has a vision of walls shaking, coupled with groans and prayers that sound too much like Tsubaki. “But  _ Wes,  _ ahh! That’s the truest thing I’ve ever heard. He  _ would _ .”

“Don’t know how Tsubaki stands him. That girl is a saint.”

“It helps that he’s totally smitten with her too. And with sweet tea,” Maka reports, twirling a bundle of her hair around her index finger.  _ Normal _ , _ sound normal _ .  “And he wears slacks all the time. Oh! And he got his ears pierced, so he gets really happy when he gets compliments on them.”

“Duly noted. I’ll ignore those things extra hard.”

“You're so  _ mean _ to him Soul. He just wants some of your love and attention.” She can relate. Lord, can she relate.

“He's nosy and overshares. He says he has to unclog the shower drain everyday after he showers. Because of his  _ pubes _ , Maka. That's not  _ normal _ .”

“I’m disgusted.” She giggles for the first time in what feels like months. Irony decrees that the surge of happiness only makes her more aware of her exhaustion, so she wiggles under her covers, content. “I'm ninety nine percent sure he's not even lying, though. Wes never lies.”

Soul makes a vomiting noise but ends up laughing too. “He's such a diva. I can't deal with him sometimes. Did you know he came all the way out here in March to give me a birthday present? He stayed for like 20 minutes and then left.”

“He's such a good brother to you - ohh, and that reminds me. Um, I got something at my office today.” She grimaces, loath to veer away from a somewhat normal conversation and into another clumsy one that welcomes embarrassment. She doesn't go into the story right away, giving him a chance to fess up. Not like she can outright ask if he sent her flowers, or the  _ card _ , but he isn’t reacting -  

What’s more, he already turned her down while they held each other in the bathroom after she missed their wedding.  _ I love you _ , she had confessed, and he stayed silent. He doesn’t feel the same. It’s silly, but she can’t take a bath anymore without the heartache creeping up on her.

“Like from Amazon or something?”

“No, not... exactly. Someone ran into my office when I stepped into the back. By the time I went to see who it was, they had already left. And.” She clenches her jaw, preparing for the leap. “Hmm. There was - a present, on my desk.”

“Creepy,” is his faraway, distracted response.

“Sort of, but I was happy to get it. They were flowers.”

“Oh.”

_ Oh _ isn’t what she wanted to hear. It tells her nothing. He’s not shocked like someone without prior knowledge would respond, but he’s not claiming responsibility either. Just  _ oh _ . Oh. What else is there to say?

Sometimes she wonders if that’s what he said when she didn’t show up.

Oh,  _ oh.  _ Oh.

A single syllable carries so much.

“They are  _ so _ beautiful,” she continues, not brave enough to mention the card.

“That’s good, I’m happy for you.” There’s creaking, like he’s turning over in bed. “Ah, well… What time is it, anyway?”

Maka closes her eyes to envision Soul’s brown ones finding the alarm clock in his room, unimpressed with the late hour but obedient to his sleep schedule. At least she can imagine  _ him _ , knit brows and all. His surroundings are a mystery; she’s never seen his apartment because he’s never invited her over.

“It's almost 11… I should knock out.”

_ 11:11! _

Her chest pounds like a shaking metal can filled with rusty nails. Anxiety. This must be what life will be like from now on, walking on some kind of edge, looking down all the time, but not being allowed to express fear of falling.

“Get your beauty sleep,” she encourages.

“I need to hibernate,” he says, yawning.

“Sleep well, Soul.”

“G’night.”

“Oh - and I still love you, too,” she says quickly, but he doesn't respond. Pulse in her throat, she looks at her phone - the call had already been disconnected. Opening a text message thread and typing the words out loses its cathartic touch. She stares at the words until she wakes in the middle of the night without memory of closing her eyes.

She deletes it, rolls out if bed, and doesn’t text first.


	3. the view by your side

Unfortunately, returning to Death City opens old wounds, but only because Wes’s dimmed, pink-lit penthouse is bright with liveliness that reminds Soul he doesn’t belong. He lingers at the end of the hallway, eyeing the pockets of people either swaying to the music or chitchatting in small circles, heads leaned toward one another. Though he’s been here for all of two minutes, the bass speakers have already replaced his heart beat with one that both fills his chest and slips right through him.

 _Yeah_ , _I won’t connect with anyone here,_ Soul thinks, and while it would have been a lonely thought a year and some months ago-ish, it’s now a relief. He's self sufficient now, complete, self-assured, and alone. Alone, and that’s okay. The days when Maka would have taken one look at his face, understood his uneasiness, and lead him away by the hand to the nearest closet to play on their phones are now over and gone.

But he's learned to see the _good_ in those moments ending. Thanks to the lord above and the devil below, he’s come to terms with loss, with his one sided pining, with the distance. Things change and people move on and then grow apart. Of course she’s still his ride or die, and maybe he won’t click with someone in the same way again, but his solitude is too precious to share anyway.

What matters is that he's _over_ it now. His feelings for Maka Albarn had been a lost cause from the start. Parting ways had been a special brand of torture to say the least, what with the separation anxiety and homesickness inspiring bouts of insomnia and hopeless stomach aches. He hadn't known emotional pain could manifest itself physically, but he made it through.

Now all he has to do is survive tonight. No matter how hard he squints into the New Year’s Eve festivities, Soul doesn’t pick out his irritating older brother anywhere. Figures that Wes would drag him all the way out here and grant him five seconds of brotherly bonding, but then again, Wes can’t sense Soul’s distress like Maka can. She would be the first one by his side, or she used to -

 _Oh._ Soul spots her standing alone in the corner of the living room, and longing hits him like a rekindled addiction. Though she’s not aware of his presence, she catches him off guard - his breath pauses, his thoughts skip. She's off in her own world, looking patient, _dedicated_ , like she's…

Waiting for someone.

The realization hurts. He's on autopilot, stumbling backwards like an animal holding in its own guts after a clawing, backtracking to the foyer before she turns her head and meets his eyes. He can’t look away. She’s the same as before, except with a hint of well-worn loneliness. Same brows drawn together by overthinking, same stance, same ash blonde hair, same nose.

Stupid. He’s stupid for surrendering to the nostalgia, for coming here, for trusting himself. The sand is back in his throat, but he has so much to say - he still wants to be with her _so bad_.   

Parties with pink lighting like these exist in alternate planes, so if he steps outside he might escape the nostalgia. Tightening his grip on his rolling suitcase handle to fight off dissociation helps until he can’t see her anymore. And then he’s alone again, with only the too fast music having followed him under the normal yellow light by the front door.

Soul stands still, steadying himself. There was once a time he would have beelined to Maka without reservations. Running away never solves his problems, but he -

“Avoiding someone?”

He spins around, knocking his suitcase onto the hardwood floor. “Shit, Jackie, announce your presence or something. And for your info, I just flew in and my bladder is full, so I need to relieve myself.”

“So… you’re going outside for that? You’re _lying_ , Soul.. I can see the truth in your eyes, along with the _unrequited_ dokis.”

“You’ve been watching too much anime, Weeb-o.”

Jackie flips her hip-length hair back, eye roll accentuated by glittery eyeshadow that probably shimmers bewitchingly in the pink lighting - not that Soul wants to go back and perform an experiment. Fixating on her makeup is a nice distraction for a moment, something his mind can zero in on while his defense mechanism work to suppress wistfulness.  

“Are you ok? You look…”

“I'm good, Jackie, just tired from the trip. The flight got delayed twice.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it.”

 _Eyes_ , man, they really are the windows to the soul. Jackie stares at him, unwavering, challenging him to open up before she switches to well-meaning prying. Always a proponent for working through unsettling emotions, she’s perfected both her listening ear and interrogation skills over the course of their friendship, all for the sake of catharsis. People who know him better than he knows himself like Jacqueline Diehl-Lantern are rare, but talking in general isn’t natural to him, especially about someone who _left_ him at the altar but somehow still sticks around.

Soul Evans gulps under Jackie’s scrutiny, but he isn’t a quitter. He’s a loser, but not a quitter. Pre-school arguments with her consisted of scrunching their noses at each other behind the teacher’s back until one of them (read: Soul) broke down and handed over the crayons or snack or whatever it was they were fighting about. As they aged, Jackie’s mastery of eye-rolling, pouting, and shooting fifty thousand different types of pointed glares continued to outplay his frozen bitch face and unchanging grumpy attitude.   

So, obviously, he doesn’t win this match - he blames the infernal sand and Jackie’s ability to read him.

“You’re a _bully_ ,” he grumbles, averting his gaze and reaching down to pick up his suitcase.

Her laughter is quick, loud, and familiar, and he finds himself smiling too, a different type of nostalgia overcoming him. She’s his best friend too, despite the frequent disagreements and name calling sessions that turn a little _too_ real. How could he have stayed away from his hometown this long? Ranking friendships would be wrong and unfair because no two people are the same, but she’s not Maka, she’s not; he can _relax_ around Jackie _,_ and that makes him feel better and worse at the same time.

The relief of being reunited must have gotten to Jackie too, because she meets his sudden hug with open arms and watery eyes that magnify Soul’s guilt. Watching Jackie dab at her eyes and chuckle at their sappy moment does things to him - maybe he’s been missed, maybe he’s been depriving himself of people he needs, maybe running away doesn’t fix everything.

Jackie composes herself, calling him a dork and chiding him for skipping his shave this morning and giving her cheek a minor case of fuzz-burn.

“I was lazy, does that surprise you? Also, I was busy trying to tune in to your radio show-” He chokes, the memory of a certain session hitting him like a bat. “By the way, how _could_ you? On my _anniversary_ , too, why did you do that?”

Though their conversation flows in aimless tangents, she isn’t startled by his outburst. “It was a coincidence! I promise it was just some horrible mess up.”  

“On _that_ day. Do you… think she heard it?”

“Uhm…” Jackie winces like the remorse pinches her on the arm. “No?”

“Fuck,” he says, slumping against the wall, knee bent. If he leaves a shoe mark on it, then oh well - screw Wes for bringing him out here, even if none of this is his fault.

“You waited all this time to scold me?”

“ _Yes,_ Jackie.” He throws a few more swear words out there, running a hand through his hair. “You made me wheeze, I thought I was going to die.”

“Me too,” she admits, worry lines around her mouth apparent. “She was with Kim and them at the time, and they said...”

Another staring contest ensues when Jackie refuses to finish her sentence. Instead, her chin dips downward, like a child who knows they’ve committed a misdeed. For once, Soul doesn’t rejoice in winning.

Soul: 1, Jackie: 19,435.

Great.

 _Is she okay_ , he could ask, but it would invite Jackie to ask more about _Maka_ and all the hurt attached to her, so he clenches his jaw shut tight. His temples throb from keeping his curiosities restrained.  

“Want me to deliver you to Wes? He’s on the balcony, showing off his magic tricks.”

“ _Ugh_. You can deliver me to the hospital. I feel like an embarrassed parent.”

“C’mon,” she says, looping an arm around his, tugging him away from the wall. “He’s been waiting for you.”

Soul feels like fragile contents under pressure, snatching the suitcase by the handle as he’s dragged down the hallway. He protests that he needs to drop off his belongings in Wes’s bedroom, but that detour lasts less than two minutes even when he uses the bathroom and kills time by splashing cool water on his face. Gathering strength to walk into the crowd and potentially into Maka means blinking at himself in the mirror before brushing off his shoulders and going out there again.

At least he’s not alone. Jackie guides him around dancing couples and cants her head at a passed-out-cold Black*Star sprawled on the couch as they pass by, a pool of drool around his parted lips. Soul sees Jackie’s mouth move, probably explaining why, what, and how this happened, but the music has dominated most of his senses, the heavy bass cancelling out his pulse. Part of his inability to even think straight can be attributed to Jackie’s hypnotizing eyeshadow in this pink lighting, and he mentally thanks her for the diversion.

Stepping outside is like being admitted to heaven - Soul cherishes the fresh night air and all the space around him, shutting the sliding door behind them to muffle the blaring music.

“Baby brother!” a voice cries, and then Soul is ensconced in another hug, this one just as tight. He’s lifted off the ground. Memories of being picked up as a toddler come rushing in - he really _is_ home.

“Wes, put me down! You’re going to give yourself a hernia.”

“I’m just so excited to see you.” Wes holds Soul out at arm’s length, checking up on him like a proud mother. “You’re so grown up!”

“Shut up,” Soul says, and grins. “I see the Evans genes took over finally, and your hair went white. Hey, Tsu,” he adds, nodding at her, which somehow escalates into a group hug, with Tsubaki’s cheek smushed against his and Jackie’s arm caught between them.

“My family’s complete again! Don’t leave us again, Baby Bro.”

“I have a job now,” he replies, straightening his now rumpled shirt. “ _Responsibilities_. I can’t just ditch them.”

Tsubaki nods while the other two protest, her face lighting up for him. It gets to him - her sincerity knows no limits despite having interacted with him a couple of times, like they’ve known each other for awhile. Like a sister he never had, like the older sibling he does. Actually, Soul hasn’t seen Wes and Tsubaki together besides at his and Maka’s… _almost_ wedding, but with at the couple in front of him _now_ , Soul can’t help but think they’re kinda _cute_ together.

Not that he would admit it to Wes.

“How _is_ the groupie life going?” Jackie asks, pursing her lips together and batting her eyes. Mockingly.

“I’m _not_ a groupie,” he corrects, sticking his tongue out at her. “Sound engineering is nothing like groupie life. I make sure all the equipment works for the artists that come to the concert arena, and that the music doesn’t sound like shit - shut _up_ Jackie, I’m not a glorified DJ.”

Wes intervenes. “Children please, don’t fight.” Then, more seriously, “Soul - I _do_ have a position available at the TV station, if you wanted to relocate.”

“That reeks of nepotism, but thanks, Wes. Really.” Now Soul wishes he would have plucked some dessert off the table so he could stuff his mouth and have an excuse not to talk.

“I mean, that’s not _untrue_. It’s Mom’s company, but you’ve worked hard and deserve it.”

“And I’m sure someone would have to interview him, right Wes?” Jackie and Wes share a look that warns Soul they’ve been _conspiring_. “I mean, you’re a producer, not the HR department.”

“ _Senior_ producer, thank you, that’s true.”

“Yeah, Jackie,” Soul intervenes, blowing a raspberry, hoping to divert the topic of conversation away from himself. “Don’t leave the senior off. It obviously hurts his feelings.”

“You got yourself a _senior_ , Tsubaki,” Jackie cackles, reaching up to ruffle Wes’s white hair, who relishes the attention and doesn’t slap away her hand like Soul would.

“I wonder what we must look like to people who don’t know us.” Tsubaki’s grin makes Wes grin, too. “People might be under the impression you’re my Sugar Daddy.”

“Ohhh, call my Daddy again, Tsu-dear.”

“Don’t,” Jackie and Soul deadpan, but it’s too late. The couple is already smirking at each other.

“I need a refill,” Wes declares, raising his brows at his girlfriend, who follows him back inside, hips swaying as she giggles.

“I’m _really_ too asexual for this,” Soul sighs, vowing to raise hell if those two frisky animals dirty his suitcase. “And I’m thirsty, too.”

Jackie trails behind him as they re-enter the party, the music drowning her out as she says,

“I’m going to find Kim…”

Snack bar for Soul it is, then. Standing around chewing on crushed ice to keep himself busy isn’t how he imagined the night going, but now that the bedroom might be occupied, it’s not like he has another place to hide. Except - the guest bedroom! Hopefully no one else has snuck in there, and if that plan fails, he can hide in a closet by himself, or just mark his territory on the balcony -

They bump into each other, gently, and the first thing he notices is that she still smells like the bar of almond soap he bought her two years ago at the farmer’s market. The memory is so vivid it hurts to breathe. _She’s_ so real it hurts, flesh and all, though their contact was more of a graze of their arms than anything. To deny that he’s still grieving what they could have been is a dishonor to himself, a lie.

Her lips move: “Hi.”   

“Hey,” he says back, though he can’t hear himself over the speakers.

They blink at each other, Maka snapping out of it first - comes _alive._ Knowing that he can cause this reaction in her fuels him. Her smile brightens the room, his mood, the moment. It’s a clear blur. She throws her arms around his neck and they stay like that, holding each other. He closes his eyes - it’s almost like being alone with her in the dark, alone _together_.

And then she pulls away, their cheeks rubbing, her shouting morphing from ecstatic to pained and finally back to highly interested.

“Owww- _oooo_ , you have some stubble!”

“Yeah, puberty hit me while I was out in LA,” he yells back, earning a laugh that he doesn’t really hear but still makes his heart flip. Instincts take over - he _is_ home, after all: “Wanna go outside?”

Watching her cheeks redden means the world to him. It’s like old times, the two of them wandering off together, to sit in their own little corner. Maka grabs a plate and piles it up high while he pours them paloma fizz mocktails compete with rosemary sprigs and grapefruit slide garnishes.

On the balcony, she searches his face hungrily, beaming.

“I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Me either,” he says, dragging two wicker chairs away from the sliding door, for privacy. “Kinda surreal, huh?”

Maka hums in agreement, plopping herself down, cheeks pinched. Soul can’t look at her, but she’s the opposite and can’t seem to get her eyes off him, brave when he isn’t. She leans over and shoves the plate underneath his nose with the simple explanation that, “Grab something. Wes got the party catered, of course.”

“Maka, there’s sashimi on here. You _hate_ raw fish.” He’s touched, the gesture hitting a sore spot he didn’t know existed, like a day old bruise he doesn’t remember getting. “You got this for _me_.”

“So _self-involved_ ,” she huffs, winking. “Just take it off my plate, okay?”

“Can do. Oh, and this is for you, though I kinda wanna go back and grab some hot chocolate, too. It’s chilly out here...”

Soon he’s comfortably cold, nose runny, face numb for other reasons - mainly smiling too much because of Maka’s animated recounts of what he’s missed, though it’s just as hard to sit this close to her as it would be to scoot away. He wishes that they were back at their apartment like _before_ , lounging on the couch together and bickering about whether his music’s on too loud or if her reading lamp is too bright. Her head would always end up resting on his shoulder in the end, and he hated waking her up and going off to their own beds.

In some respects, nothing’s changed. He’s already dreading going their separate ways when they’re done catching up. Then again, he and Maka - they’re just not the _same_. Tension wouldn’t be a good word to describe the hesitancy and clumsiness lining the breaks between conversation. There are so many things he doesn’t understand; he knows why he holds back, but Maka? Part of him wants to ask if she was waiting for him in the same way he did that night.

Life is okay, she reports - work, work, work, stress, fulfillment. She’s lost her keys four times, forgotten to call back her papa, who then becomes so run-over with worry it drives him to barge into her apartment while she’s face-masked and eating cereal for dinner, and she’s become a fan of pedicures. Business has bloomed (without him), she’s mastered multitasking (because he left), and she still gets a high from taking on a new client (again, without him.)

Well, if Soul ever stops being selfish, he’d tell her how _proud_ he is of her accomplishments, how _sorry_ he is for not being around, for carrying feelings that ironically create a rift he can’t cross to reach her. He can’t be himself. Apologizing for being on high alert after _that_ day would only place unwarranted blame on her. It’s not her fault he can’t control his overgrown crush.

 _Bleh_.

“It’s weird seeing Mama and Papa together,” she’s saying, blowing air into her cupped hands for warmth. “Or more like, it’s weird seeing them together and Papa not grovelling over her like he used to.” She rolls her eyes, Soul catching a glimpse of the residual pain underneath her sass. “Maybe he’s finally learned to respect her.”

“I’m glad they’re getting along better. Good thing they’re not fighting over you like they were at first.”

“I’m so over it. But did I tell you that I’ve let Papa take me out on a few Daddy-Daughter dates?”

Soul almost chokes on the grapefruit slice he’s been sucking on. “Whaaat?”

She nods, the elation, however rightfully tentative, notable in how she shifts in her chair, as if she’s trying to restrain some incoming wave of emotion. “Mhm, he’s quite the charmer.”

“ _Your_ dad?” Soul coughs, shaking his head. “And he didn’t flirt with anyone else while he was out with you?”

“No! Well… not that I saw. At least the ban from my favorite bookstore has been lifted from the _last_ time he took me somewhere and couldn’t stop chasing after the lady that worked there.”

“He’s such a-”

“ _Soul_ , don’t slut-shame my papa, he’s got a thousand flaws but at least he’s...” Her nose wrinkles, probably mincing her words internally. “I don’t know what he is, but he’s not as bad. He even stopped smoking and drinking! He seems happier now.”

 _“And are you happy, too?”_ almost comes out of his mouth, but she would only ask him the same thing.

Maka shivers, crosses her arms over her chest, and taps her heel against her chair leg. “Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions?”

 _To get over you_.

More things he can’t say.

Night falls, he’s cold, her teeth chatter, but neither suggest moving inside. Doing so would ruin their intimacy. In there, they’re strangers. Out here, they have a shot at being themselves again if they successfully transverse the turbulence they occasionally hit, these bulky interludes where neither can broach a subject. No one witnesses Soul inelegantly compliment Maka’s wine-red dress or flush in response to her offhand comment that they’re in resonance, matching like a couple.

It’s safe, and that’s all he needs.

By the time 11:59 rolls around, he’s sleep-drunk and more in love with Maka Albarn than yesterday, and the day before, but less than tomorrow. Some day there might not be enough room inside him to carry those feelings. It scares him out of his mind; it enriches him.

He and Maka stand and tilt their heads up at the starless sky, waiting for Wes’s promise of fireworks and the influx of party people onto the balcony with them, but they don't come. Instead, the music stops abruptly and the crowd grows still.

Whatever the reason, it’s all in Soul’s periphery, unimportant compared to the sentimental rush of simultaneously ending a year with Maka and starting a new one.

_TEN!_

All that runs through his head is that he has a flight out tomorrow morning. The moment will come too soon where he has to part with _home_ again. What’s the best is that the view by Maka’s side is too good to be true -

_NINE!_

Death City is surrounded by desert, a wannabe Las Vegas amidst cacti, scorching sand, rattlesnakes with a penchant for greeting people on their porches, and a highway with only two lanes. Growing up, Soul’s aversion for the confining city knew no limit, as did his desire to leave with Maka in tow. Obviously that didn’t quite work out how they imagined, but the clumped, neon-lit high rises, tight-knit neighborhoods,  and eerily empty streets take on a certain charm now that he’s returned.  

_EIGHT!_

Homesickness is terminal.

_SEVEN!_

Sure, he misses stepping out into the Nevada sun.

_SIX!_

And running into an old friend and getting to know them again, discovering they haven’t changed - that’s priceless.

_FIVE!_

He hasn’t changed either, and neither have his feelings for his best friend. It’s not like he could drop them like he can his luggage or the mugs he can’t seem to hold onto properly.

_FOUR!_

When he turns to watch the light play across Maka’s face, he finds she’s already looking at him. Of course she’s two steps ahead of him. Competitive as she is, she’s not one to be second in anything. That’s just how she is, how she’s wired. Lagging behind isn’t an option - it’s both an endearing and frustrating quality to him, one he misses. He can’t outrun her. She’s an extension of him.

_THREE!_

She blinks, determination taking over like she’s decided on something. Her eyes are dark as her brows furrow; he can’t see the green in them, but he’s comforted by the fact that the yellow ring around her pupil is hidden there somewhere. That and the freckles he had forgotten sprinkle her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

_TWO!_

The gravity is different here. Maybe. She stands on her tiptoes like a ballerina and he leans down toward her instinctively. Bends for her like some weapon only she can wield. When she poises a hand on his shoulder and the heat of her touch reaches him through the fabric of his shirt, he knows it’s _over_ . He’s _gone_ , disarmed, and it’s sublime, like falling asleep.

_ONE!_

Naturally, he closes his eyes. They haven’t touched yet but he’s already come to terms that the sadness of parting will last longer than this rawness. She’s a feather-like brushstroke against him at first, careful, noble. Then all he knows are soft, chapped lips that slant over his like they’re searching for undeniable truth. He’s been closed off for so long he’s not sure how to pour himself, but with Maka’s help he’ll get there.

The kiss is brief, but the gentleness of it haunts him as they pull away. Fireworks cast a sequence of light and shadows on her face, and he decides he never wants to stop getting to know her.

He catches his breath. “What was that for?”

She tightens her grip on him, a gesture for just one more, just _one more_ , and that’s it. She’s closing her eyes again, so she’s on board, and he inches in -

A round of cheering applause snags their attention. Their heads snap to the left, inside, where a crowd has circled around Tsubaki, a hand covering her mouth, nodding down at someone who rises to kiss her. Someone with white hair - _Wes_. The crowd erupts in glee again, Wes and Tsubaki are glued at the mouth as they spin around, and Soul’s moment with Maka slips away.

But he can’t think straight.

“Lord Jesus,” he mutters, the disbelief not wearing off.

“Ohhhhh,” Maka screeches. “Did they just-?”

“Yeah… I think, unless we’re having the same dream.”

Maka moves first, hooking an arm around his, glancing at him hesitantly as if to ask _do you want to go with me?_ She bites her lip; it takes everything he has not to go back in for just _one more_. Instead, he responds by leading the way back into the loud chaos and raw happiness he’s too afraid to show. His face burns from the contact with her, his lips tingle, he’s disassociating again, only this time because of a psychedelic delirium.

Shoving his way through to his brother kills the vibe, though. The party guests don’t understand that as Wes’s actual blood relative, _he_ should be first to congratulate the couple. He even elbows Kim and Jackie out of the way, letting out a war cry to get his brother’s attention.

“You’re getting _married_ and you didn’t even _tell_ _me_ you were gonna do it,” he shouts, fist colliding with Wes’s shoulder. “I’m gonna have a sister. A _sister!_ ”

Maka unravels herself from him (for once the small act doesn’t crush him - maybe nothing can after that kiss they need to talk about) and swarms her best friend. “TSUBAKI! I can’t believe it-”

“Please say you’ll be my maid of honor!”

Tears well up in Maka’s eyes. “Oh - oh, _me_?”

“Maybe you’ll be an uncle one day, Baby Bro,” Wes pipes up over the excitement, grin big and hopeful.

Soul’s immediate reaction involves gagging - too asexual, thanks - but it’s _true_. Tsubaki and Wes bring out the best in each other, and their new life together will be just that: the Dream. Paying bills together, bumping their heads when they’re brushing their teeth at the same time, dealing with setbacks, giving 80/20 when the other is going through a difficult time, caring for each other when they’re both happy or sick. Raising children, making mistakes, learning to apologize, growing together.

The notion strikes a chord with Soul, who gulps back thoughts about Maka in the inky wedding dress.

Meanwhile, Wes throws himself at a startled Maka’s feet. “Maka, please please please _please_ plan our wedding. I’ll pay you.”

“Well _duh_ , she doesn’t work for free,” Soul mumbles, a sinking feeling in his chest while he watches Wes draws Maka down and whispers a dollar amount into her ear.

“That’s generous, Wes,” she marvels, and they shake on it - or more like, he crushes her limp hand and flops it around as he straightens.

The worst is when Wes immediately turns to Soul. “You’ll be at my wedding, right? Promise you’ll come back. I need my best man there, and I’ll even pay for your airplane ticket-”

“Course I’ll be there, Wes.” Is Soul _that_ distant? Wes reduced to begging and bargaining for Soul to _return_ \- he’s been a horrible brother. “I’ll be your best man too, if you ask me properly.”

For the first time in Soul’s working memory, his overzealous older brother doesn’t bubble with jubilation, doesn’t invade Soul’s personal space to engulf him in some sort of unwanted public display of affection, doesn’t seem larger than life. He just _smiles_. Quietly, like it’s an unparalleled honor to have Soul as his best man.

 _UGH_. Soul’s been the worst.

The pink lighting distorts reality the longer he stands in it. People come between him and Wes and Tsubaki, people Soul doesn’t know, people who don’t know him, people who probably don’t notice him zoning out, wrestling with the consequences of his decisions. Someone must have turned on the music again because it blares through his bones. He’s alone again, unfit, a loser, the weight of social uncertainty crushing him -

Someone touches his shoulder, and the familiarity reels him back to reality.

“Soul,” Maka begins, and Soul already knows what she’s going to ask. “Can you stay, and help me plan the wedding? I’m thinking…” She bites her lip, and he’s feverish with want. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but six months is a short time to plan, and I’m going to need your help. If you can, I mean...”

He’s here to _stay_. “I’ll take over the floral arrangements. Can’t have Tsubaki putting up the flowers and everything for her own wedding just because she’s a florist, right?”

Maka flinches, the recognition lighting something up inside her. “Flowers?”

“Yeah.” He hikes a curious brow up at her reaction, brushing away a stray lock from her cheek. “Is that okay?”

Maka answers with movement. Determination looks unfairly beautiful on her as she touches his shoulder again and they fall into place, closing the space between their mouths. All he sees is the deep green of her irises, and then he’s greeted by black because he closes his eyes. Soul is moved by everything he’s never had words to convey, but that’s all right because he follows her lead. Her neck is so _soft_ -

It’s over before their lips touch, the abruptness of it leaving a residual sting like he ripped duct tape off his forearm. She flinches under his hands, pushing him away, mouth contorted, breathing erratic.

“Sorry,” he splurts out, devastated to witness Maka _backing away_ from him. “Sorry - I thought - _damn_ , I’m sorry, I should have asked first!”

“No, no, it’s not that. I’m sorry, I-”

She runs away to the bathroom, claiming to be okay unconvincingly. Soul’s done it too many times not to recognize it, but he stays put, waiting to make things right.

  
  
  



	4. I tried to say I'd be there

“You don’t have a ride home,” Soul’s voice says, his silhouette falling over Maka as she perches on the bench outside of Wes’s apartment building. She lifts her head to meet her best friend’s gaze, the white streetlight behind him casting his face in a shadow but blending in with his hair, making him half-translucent around the edges.

She smiles guiltily. “I don’t.”

Crestfallen, he stands eerily still. “You said you didn’t want me to take you home because you already had a ride...”  

There’s nothing left to say but the truth, and she’s terrified of it despite its simplicity. Soul had smoothed her hair away from her cheek mid-conversation earlier, barely caressing her neck, and she had been disarmed  _ instantly _ . He had started to lean in and she almost closed her eyes, but she got cold feet again, so  _ cold _ , so terrified, a shrill alarm going off wildly in her head.

_ Danger, danger, danger, don’t break your own heart again! _

Poor Soul. The New Year’s high must have addled his brain. Taking advantage of that would be immoral. Still, it’s hard to ignore the trouble written in his eyes, something disconcerting about the way his shoulders are rounded more than usual. He lingers in front of her, slipping his hands into the leather jacket she loved to wear around their apartment in between seasons when neither wanted to turn on the heater yet.

God, she misses that, misses him. They need to sort everything out, but if she opens up at this vulnerable moment, she might pour herself out entirely and scare him away, burdening him with her one-sided feelings.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice cracking at the end. “I needed some time alone.”

He shrugs it off like it’s water under the bridge, half turning to back away, a certain hesitance tethering him to his spot. “S’okay… But if you need a ride home, I’m your man. Wes still has my bike stored in his garage, and I was gonna go for a ride anyway...”

Maka can’t keep coming back and leaving claw marks on him every time she retreats. It’s unfair, it’s self-centered, it’s brutal agony for both parties. Maybe she has picked up his masochist tendencies because she accepts his offer with a single nod. She’s delusional too, imagining that Soul seems momentarily consoled at the normalcy of flying down the empty freeway with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, cheek pressed against his back... _ almost _ like cuddling.

She closes her eyes.   

All too soon they’re home. Well,  _ she _ is, the bike rumbling beneath them as they roll to a stop, Soul glancing back at her after putting his foot down on the ground. Her heart swells with deep-seated fondness. She’s not sure what to do with herself. Wishing she hadn’t turned him down earlier floods her, and her body responds to the urgency of kissing him by going numb.

The words slip out like water between her fingers. “Hey Soul? I still love you.”

“I know,” he reassures, smiling without any joy reaching the brown of his eyes. No, they go flat, out of reach.

Maka Albarn realizes two things while she squeezes his shoulders good night: he doesn’t say it back, and she can’t remember the last time he did. The presentiment that she has widened the gap between them follows her over the threshold to her bedroom and won’t let her sleep.

X

On the second day of the new year, Maka’s ankle boots  _ click click click  _ on ceramic tile as she shuffles through the café, gasping as she drops into the seat across from Tsubaki. “Sorry I’m late - let me see it!”

Tsubaki’s hand automatically springs out from her lap, ring finger raised slightly above the others like she’s already accustomed to brandishing the scintillating diamond Wes Evans custom-ordered. “I’m nervous Maka, but I’m so happy, I never thought I could be this happy!”

“It’s so beautiful! It’s kind of - big. Is it too heavy?”

“It’s perfect.” Tsubaki signals the waiter for tea and Maka’s usual black coffee with four sugars, tacking on four heavily iced cinnamon rolls to their order because they’re in celebration mode. “I was completely blindsided. I never suspected he was going to propose.”

“Really? It makes sense, he’s completely head over heels in love with you. All googly-eyed and everything… But I guess Soul and I were surprised to see that he did it, too.”

Memories of herself and Soul intertwined on the balcony rush back, and she’s not okay.

“Speaking of!” Tsubaki leans forward like she’s ready to hear a secret, eyes gleaming, brightening up the whole café. “How was seeing Soul? I know you’ve missed him a lot.”

It was half-bliss, half-damnation. Now all that consumes Maka is: how much did she give away? She wasn’t very shy, was she? She’d kiss him again, and again, every morning getting out of bed and every night before bed, and at any opportunity in between, but she’s the type of perfectionist who falls to pieces under pressure. Deep inside, she’s aware she’s not sick, but she’s nauseated with how she has no words to describe exactly how badly she wants to be with him.

And she’s never told anyone, not a soul, no pun intended. Yet, everyone senses Maka’s soft spot for the reticent, resting bitch faced music enthusiastic who only ever opens up when they’re alone. Relentless teasing from mutual friends and even her own silly papa haven’t worn her down because she’s switched from barricading herself behind a safe amount of denial to pleading the fifth.

Just like right now.

“The Evans brothers have quite a charm, don’t they?”

“Wes is the greatest,” Maka concedes, not eager to maneuver through this minefield they’re heading into. “Even when he’s flashing off all his money, you can’t even think the worst of him. He’s one of those people everyone always wants to be friends with.”

Tsubaki cuts straight to the point, as if leaving the door open for a revelation: “And Soul’s pretty cute too.”

“Yeah, he finally grew into his jaw.”

The waiter returns with their goodies just then, delaying Maka’s interrogation by asking if they’d be partial to anything else, to which Tsubaki declines politely. Though it's scalding, Maka scoops up her coffee mug and brings it to her lips, blowing gently before sipping, chancing a burnt tongue.

“And he’s so sweet. The way he looks at you is cute, too. It’s adorable, honestly.”

“I wouldn’t call glaring and blowing raspberries when he’s trying to annoy me cute, but I guess he’s okay other times, too.”

Tsubaki reaches to tie her hair up. “No, I mean, he goes all goofy faced, like he’s literally melting.”

“That’s so cheesy, Tsu. Soul’s not like that. It’s not like that.”

“It’s clear as day. I mean, you’ve been friends since middle school, and you were voted prom king and queen, and - aww, he just  _ cares _ about you so much.”

Maka doesn’t realize she’s tapping her fingers against the table until her nails throb violently. “It’s not like that.”

Stirring milk into her tea doesn’t stop an oblivious Tsubaki’s well-intended rant. “And I think there’s something there.  _ Really _ . Something more than friendship.”

On Maka’s part, yes. When he’s not around, she’s waiting to be with him, counting hours and days until they can co-nap or argue about who killed their Snapchat streak two years ago. Then afterwards, in her solitude, she sickeningly daydreams about the way his dimple appears whenever they snicker about the bizarre but affectionate insults they hurl at each other. God forsaken LA put a halt to all of this (and, y’know, leaving him at the altar, but she can’t own up to that quite yet). When he moved to the city of fun and sun without a return date, she grasped at straws, resorting to tallying the weeks that dragged on, no end to her waiting in sight.  

Until now, and he hadn’t even  _ told her  _ about the trip home. Weedling the information out had been worse than begging because of his  _ reluctance _ .

She was the  _ last _ to know!

“I know you might be scared he doesn’t feel the same-”

He doesn’t. Maka already confessed in the bathtub a year ago:  _ I love you, I’m letting you go _ .

She snaps like a pencil splitting in two. “I said,  _ it’s not like that! _ ”

Conversations around them break off, silverware clinks against plates, chairs scrape against the tile, the small noises amounting to an ear-splitting din as people turn to investigate. Never mind the looks Maka and Tsubaki are getting, ranging from annoyed to overly nosy - Maka can’t iron out her furrowed brows, can’t quench the ire bubbling in her throat, can’t smile and play it off like she usually does. Even when their fellow customers resume their pre-outburst activities, sharp resentment lingers on Maka’s part.

“Sorry,” Tsubaki says after a few minutes of searching the depths of her tea. “I wasn’t trying to sound… I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, I’m sorry I snapped.” And she is, Maka is so  _ sorry _ . Screwing up is now her forte. She blames Soul and his effect on her brain. “I think him coming back is stressful for me.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm.” Sip sip, her coffee ran cold while she drowned in sentimentality. “I think… I don’t know, it almost feels like we forgot how to be normal around each other.”

“I’m so sorry, that’s hard to deal with…” Tsubaki pauses to drink her tea and probably choose her words wisely. “Did anything happen on New Year’s Eve?”

Exhilaration and regret, things Maka can neither take back or wish happened differently. “No,” she lies, eyeing a cinnamon roll.

“It’ll come back,” Tsubaki promises, gentleness now at its maximum. “Your friendship will come back, if that makes sense. It’s a good thing he’s helping you plan the wedding. It’ll be like old times. That should get the ball rolling again.”

Back then - back  _ then _ , Soul dealt with the background dirty work in their business: scouting locations and entertainment, managing their various spreadsheets detailing all their client’s needs, and kept his eye rolling and anxiety to a minimum while Maka actually did all the talking. They were an  _ ideal team _ , if one ever existed. Working together and living under the same roof blurred into one daydream come true, making it easy to agree to hurry up and tie the knot.

Sure, a few crucial aspects were missing. Kissing and sharing a bed and then some, but they already had the other domestic activities locked down and perfected.

But now, they have next to nothing.

If only they could go _ back _ . But even then, she and Soul had been two people orbiting around each other guardedly until she decided to stray and collide against him, and she’s also the one who swerved out of the way the second time they headed full speed at each other. The damage is done, but she hasn’t mastered the art of letting go and holding on. Instead, she keeps building walls around herself that turn into mazes, and he’s too good at getting through them.

A knot tightens in Maka’s throat. At her core, she’s desperate to be  _ found _ . “I hope…” She clears her throat, putting on a small smile. “How about we take the rolls to-go so we can get started on the dress hunt?”

Tsubaki’s eyes shine with unshed tears. “I still can’t believe he’s going to be a Nakatsukasa! And I’m going to be an Evans!”

It’s like a steel rod rams through Maka’s chest. She bites into the cinnamon bun weakly, the too- sweet frosting melting in her mouth in a way that mimics the sensation of swelling up with tears.

She could have been an Evans, too, but it would’ve lacked that special realness she’s been longing for.

X

“Your cup runneth over.”

A string of expertly chosen and executed swear words tumble out of Tsubaki’s mouth, who Maka knows chides people for using the word ‘stupid’ and ‘turd’. “I’m sure I can get it altered in time.”

“Your boobs or the dress?”

Tsubaki screeches, and nothing Maka says soothes her until she points out that cleavage will help keep the dress in place.

“They’re a gift from the good god above, not a hindrance, haha. I’m just jealous, that’s all, because I’m still waiting for mine to grow in.There’s still plenty of time to find a dress, and we still have more stores to try-”

“The wedding’s in less than six months!”

Twilight Zone: freaking out over wedding dresses, only this time Maka isn’t the one choosing. Ball gowns, A-lines, trumpet, mermaid, tea-length, sheath - the styles on top of the infinite combination of fabrics and patterns were enough to trigger hyperventilation. Helping Tsubaki out of a Cinderella-esque gown reins in some panic, but Maka hears clocks ticking in her ears and probably will until the big day.

_ Six months! _

But Maka has her partner at her side again. Temporarily, but still,  _ here  _ when she needs him the most. Soul is as much a blessing as he is a source of unending strife.

Hours later a sweaty Tsubaki laces up her knee high boots, calling an end to their store- hopping and contemplating wearing a white bathrobe inscribed with her new initials down the aisle. “And no hair and makeup. I’ll wear lipgloss and a ponytail, and that’s that.”

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” Maka opens a new memo on her phone:  _ book makeup artist. Hairdresser. _ Wedding planner duties and best friend duties overlap, but she’s quick on her toes. “I have your back.”

“Ugh, why are there so many  _ veils _ ?” Puffing her cheeks out, Tsubaki hands one out for Maka to put away, propping her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. “The part that makes me nervous is saying my vows in front of everyone.”

_ Oh _ . That horror never crossed Maka’s mind. She hadn't even made it to the wedding, too busy panicking about spilled ink that never did wash out of her dress.

Maybe she should have gone anyway. She still has so many things to say.

X

“I’m home,” Tsubaki calls out into the penthouse as she opens the door, letting Maka in first. Each time she's here, she’s more and more impressed by the view the floor-to-ceiling windows grant, especially at this time of day when the sun tinges the sky orange and dips into the never-ending sand in the distant horizon.  

Wes practically runs to meet his fiance, cupping her cheeks and kissing her freely. “Hi, welcome back, glad you’re here! How was your day?”

“Fun,” Tsubaki responds, superstition the main reason she hides her shopping bags behind her back.

Maka passes by them, aww-ing internally at their cuteness, and heads to the kitchen for a bottled water, halting mid-step at the sight of Soul seated at the table, scrolling down purposelessly on his phone’s screen. Her silence grabs his attention, and as they look at each other, it’s like all the air is sucked out of the room, the tension thicker than smog.

In her mind’s eye, she’s  _ there _ again, on the balcony -

“Hi,” she gulps.

“Hey,” he says, red watercoloring his cheeks, spreading clear down his collar. “How’s it going?”

She’s heating up as well, lips tingling, wondering if his are too. “Okay, and you?”

Ever perceptive, Wes’s face falls briefly as he and Tsubaki enter; her expression doesn’t recover as quickly, mouth hanging open like she just heard tires screeching right before a car accident.

“Is something wrong?”  she asks carefully, looking between the two.

“I have a migraine,” is Soul's immediate response.

Tsubaki and Wes work as a team to medicate Soul - the latter fetches a glass of water while the former produces a bottle of aspirin, handing him two pills. Neither notice the muted confusion on Soul's face as he stares at the pink tablets resting on his palm, but it’s apparent to Maka, and she can read his mind:  _ that’s not what I meant, but okay _ .

“You can lie down, maybe it’ll help you feel better?,” Tsubaki offers, clasping Soul’s shoulder, to which he gives an unconvinced: “It’ll go away.”

Wes pulls the two into a hug. “Great then!”

Maka suppresses a giggle at his exuberance, watching Soul’s ears turn bright red when she catches him staring.

“You two are just in time, we barely started brainstorming a few ideas. Soul’s been taking notes! Show her.”

Soul slides over his notepad like he’s completing a drug transaction. “I draw good,” is all he says.

If it weren’t hell to touch him she’d karate chop the top of his head for drawing stick figures of the couple in wedding attire surrounded by inexpert renderings of a cake, balloons, birds, donuts, and things she can’t even decipher. “ _ Soul! _ ”

“None of it is a lie,” he defends, rolling his eyes in Wes’s direction. “He’s been like a little kid planning his birthday party.”

“Okay, let's do this.”  _ Fuck _ , she has less than six months to plan this wedding. She digs a pen out of her purse, pretending that she didn’t notice the one on Soul’s other side because reaching for it would require crossing him, and presses on the back end cap to reveal the fine point tip. The  _ click _ is always satisfactory, like signaling the start of a new challenge. “How many people are you planning to invite?”

“Uhh.”

The couple shrug at each other.

“Like, five hundred? Probably more...”

Maka’s sure she’s burst a few veins in her eyeballs because her vision splotches with red dots.  _ No big deal _ , she tells herself - she’s planned a handful of mega weddings, though none of those deadlines spiked her jitters quite like this one. Wes Evans’s list of acquaintances contain  _ big  _ names, powerful names, a whole slew of potential new clients, people associated with the press. Not only does Maka  _ want  _ to give Wes and Tsubaki a wedding better than they expect, but her reputation’s on the line.

“What about the theme?” Soul chimes in.

Again, Wes and Tsubaki share a perplexed look.

“Something warm and bright, since it’s a summer wedding,” she suggests. “Maybe coral and beige?”

“I love it, Tsu! Can you picture it - our dream wedding, it's going to be perfect!” Wes glows, happy-go-lucky and optimistic, a comparison that, surprisingly, doesn't disgust Maka. It just means her papa is like Wes. “I want a donut wall, that’s my first request. A whole wall full of donuts, so our guests can eat to their desire.”

“Priorities,” Soul mutters beside Maka.

Wes goes on: “And a smoothie bar. And ice cream - an ice cream smoothie bar.”

_ Dot the i’s and cross your t’s, pretend not to be upset-ee,  _ Maka thinks to herself as she writes. “What about the main course?”

“I don't know yet.”

Exhaustion from the day settling in, Tsubaki leans into Wes from behind, wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her chin on his shoulders. “Japanese cuisine?”

“Perfect. But, there  _ has _ to be sweet tea, too.”

_ Research specific dishes and catering _ , Maka jots down, noticing white creeping up around her knuckles - she’s gripping her pen too tightly.  _ Calm down _ , she tacks on as a note to herself in bubbly capital letters. One crisis per day, one foot in front of the other. Wes and Tsubaki chatter animatedly about their favorite menu items at various Japanese restaurants while Soul’s mood darkens like an incoming storm and Maka scratches out misspelled words as she scrambles to keep up.

The topic of live entertainment coerces Soul out of his silence.“We can get fire dancers,” he eggs on, the sarcasm bordering on ugly.

“Yeah! They can do acrobatics. But, I wonder if we can book some sort of circus? What do you think, Tsu?”

“I’m sure it’ll depend on the venue, right Maka?”

“Mhm, so we can keep those ideas on hold.” Sure, she could be recording the conversation on her phone to review at a later time, but the cool smoothness of paper underneath the side of her hand is so grounding, especially as Wes declares that a photobooth is a  _ must _ .

Soul drums out an impatient rhythm against the table with his fingers. “Do you want a painter there to paint portraits of the guests, too?”

Though his tone his firm, Wes is nothing less than sympathetic: “Baby bro, I know you’re severely unhappy recently for whatever reason you won’t tell me, but you’re kind of being a Debbie Downer.”

“...Sorry.”

The pessimistic attitude makes sense. His last experience with weddings hadn’t been  _ happy  _ at all. Planning his brother’s wedding must rub Soul the wrong way, dredging up feelings they haven’t fully addressed.

_ My fault,  _ Maka cries internally, wondering where exactly she signed the dotted line to wreck their relationship, his  _ mood _ . Was it pushing him away when she tried to kiss him, the New Year’s kiss shortly before that, when she stood him up at their wedding, or as a teenager by accepting a hypothetical marriage proposal? Though Soul’s list of ex’s stands at exactly zero and he’s never voiced romantic interest in anyone, Maka would bet money she’s not his type anyway, what with her ‘fat ankles’ and ‘dumb pigtails’ and ‘grandma nightgowns’ she wears to bed.

Well, if she were in his shoes…  _ ugh _ .

Shit.

Yeah, she’d feel disrespected. Not only had he gently let her down when she told him she loved him post-wedding, but he didn’t push her away when she kissed him during Wes’s party, probably out of respect for her feelings. But she shouldn’t have done it. Consent matters; she should have asked him first.

Except then, she would bleed out, unable to stop herself from confessing _again_. She owes Soul the _whole_ explanation. That she’d kill for their marriage to have been based on truth, that she had convinced herself that living together forever _without_ the love she wants from him would be worse than staying just friends. And she’d like some answers too, regarding the card she received on their would-be anniversary, but…

Maybe those flowers weren't flowers meant to convey  _ feelings _ ; they were "I miss you and I wish we were still friends because I still love you" flowers.

Oh.

But he had kissed her back, and she can still feel his warm  _ hand  _ sliding down her neck, slowly -   

Hearing the word ‘bouquet’ in the trio’s conversation calls Maka back to Earth. Apparently that’s how Wes and Soul’s father proposed to their mother: presenting her with flowers and a promise in the middle of a busy crosswalk.

“Our parents traveled a lot, and got engaged in Seoul, Korea, hence my favorite brother’s name. Korea is his middle name.”

“Shut up, no it isn’t.”

Hmm. Eighteen year old Papa had proposed to Mama with a plastic ring he bought from a jewelry stand after she told him he was going to be a father. There had been no limits to the love there, but not the right kind, not good enough.

Not durable. Not worth mentioning.

“My parents dated for a few months, but they had a long engagement. I think six months is the perfect length of time to be engaged, don't you think so too, Wes?”

Maka and Soul had a long engagement too, if the pact counts. There had been no reason to be sure her best friend would still give her butterflies years from then, but loving him was easy to do, natural, fulfilling, beautiful. It still is. While she has no proof that love lasts - look at how Papa couldn't love Mama how she needed, how he’s still learning to love Maka how she wants - everything about her relationship with Soul had begged otherwise.

“I was afraid you'd say no.”

Tsubaki gasps, then covers her amused smile behind her hand. Seems like she'll fit right in with Soul, always hiding a part of themselves away, even when Maka pleaded and prayed and stood by while he drifted away like debris in the sea.

Wes rubs the back of his neck, again reminding Maka of Soul, who's so quiet and still beside her it's like he's not on this world anymore. “I mean, it was loud, and everyone was watching…”

“Always the center of attention,” Soul pipes up. Turning to look at him isn’t necessary; she can hear the fond smirk in is voice.

“Damn right. Why did you think I turned off the music and did that magic trick?”

Soul and Maka glance at each other accidentally. He flinches, his face falling. “Huh?”

“...You didn't see the proposal, did you?”

Soul grimaces, the remorse evidently painful.

“But, that was the surprise I flew you in for.” Never has Maka seen Wes  _ disappointed _ , and it's more upsetting than she expects, what with the liveliness that he radiates dulling. “What were you doing?”

Soul jerks, elbow digging into Maka’s arm, the contact echoing through her like a drill. “Looking for the fireworks, duh, I didn’t know you were gonna make slobbering all over Tsu the main event.”

“The cheering made us go back inside,” Maka explains, the shame forcing her to speak up and give herself an alibi. Cheeks burning, she wrings her wrists, the increasingly familiar anxiety springing up like weeds. Uprooting them has evolved from a rare episode to a losing battle. The more she rationalizes the restlessness away, the more intense and illogical it strikes back.

Hopefully the walk home can calm her down.

Soul doesn’t offer a ride home, and that hurts more than it should.

“I'll walk you to the door,” Wes offers, leading her down the entry hallway like the debutant gentleman his mother raised. Hand on the doorknob, he swivels to make sure no one’s within earshot, whispering, “Is everything okay?

_ No _ ,  _ no, no, why do you ask, Wes? _ “Yeah.”

Skeptical eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Maka gently knocks his hand off her escape route, faking a dazzling smile, thinking that she and Soul have more in common than she imagined, hating that their inability to communicate openly is driving them apart. “Yeah.”

X

Maka holds it together until she's out of the shower later that night.

Mistake one was lathering up with that almond scented bar of soap Soul bought her, even though he never smelled like it. She's been conditioned to associate him with warm water and vulnerability, because he was never too far if she needed a shoulder to cry on. Mistake two was thinking about the  _ what ifs _ of New Years. What if she had let him kiss her again, what if she had confessed, what if he had been genuine and not entirely caught up in the hype?

What if he loved her back in  _ that _ way?

She inhales sharply while tugging her microfibre towel off her hair, the nerves controlling her fingers shutting off, her strength leaving her in haste. She gasps for help but falls mute, thoughts pausing, face pinched.

She's losing her best friend, and it hurts. Something's clawing at her insides, shredding them to measly ribbons, and instead of feeling dead, her heart kickstarts.  _ Thump thump thump thump thump thump thumpthump thump thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.  _ Knees folding beneath her, she's a pile on the floor, rocking back and forth, holding her tummy, sobs interrupted by coughing fits that strain her neck.

Yeah, and maybe she deserves this. After all, she keeps hurting him, too. An eye for eye.

X

Night again, twenty-four hours since the meeting in Wes’s kitchen. Work’s pleasant distraction tempts her into staying after-hours, and Soul’s sixth sense about her sanity deteriorating under the weight of planning the Evans-Nakatsukasa wedding seemingly leads him to seek her out first via text.

_ Can I come over? _

The figurative door is always open for him. Cracked, maybe, but never closed, so Maka replies with the address and listens to the meditation app she had recently downloaded until he shows up. Of course, kicking the habit of counting down to see Soul is easier said than done, so running to greet him with a hug is an impulse. At least he meets her with the same unrestrained enthusiasm, the height difference causing him to bend down. Maka half expects to be lifted off the floor and spun around, like he would do when they met up after class in high school.

And then - the awkwardness seeps back in, Maka recoiling like she just tapped a hot light bulb. As Soul stuffs his hands into his hoodie’s pouch and wanders around the room, she wonders if she should reach out to touch him again, to test if she can outlast the heat and become anesthetized.

Maka follows his gaze, panic rising when he heads to her desk. The vase that had appeared on their anniversary still sits next to her monitor, empty, the flowers long dead and currently pressed between the pages of her favorite book.

“So, this is your office.”

“Mhmm, my second home.”

“Sometimes your first, right? I know what you’re like.” Soul leans back in Maka’s rolly chair, kicking his feet up on the desk, hands behind his head as he gives the paintings on the blue-grey walls another once over. “It’s a nice place, though.”

All she can think about is that his shoes are probably directly over the unsigned card, the thin desk mat the only barrier between the two. She blinks, the situation coming into view clearly: she’s the root of his worry, and as touched as she is that he’d come to her rescue, she shouldn’t be his priority, not when she’s acted selfishly.

“Soul,” she says, swallowing hard. “I just wanted to say… if you can’t stay to help me, that’s okay. It was a lot to ask of you.”

He jumps off the seat, wandering around again. She's about to repeat herself when he falls onto the small couch on the adjacent wall. “I already asked for the time off.”

“But…”

“So it’s all good,” he maintains, shrugging it off.

Not much she can do but stand there like a stranger in her own space. “Thank you.”

The loveseat is too small to sit together without touching, so she holds her ground, fighting off the idea to join him. Irony dictates that she can’t handle the nearness as much as she can't the distance.  

“Really, Maka, why would you say that? I want to help.” He’s not cold, but he’s cutting, precise and removed like a surgeon. A defense mechanism. “But if you’re saying you want me to leave, I can go.”

Maka squints at him, on high alert, suspicious, and crushed at being  _ so _ misunderstood. “That’s not it at all.”

Eye contact burns. Soul’s expression darkens, going through the stages of grief in one second flat: disbelief, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, sloshing around in depression. “‘If you leave, don’t come back. Stay gone.’ That’s what you’ve said before.”

“Yeah, about my  _ papa _ . Not you. He’s a cheater and a liar and - and, and!” She lays off, composing herself, willing her blood pressure to lower. There’s no need to cry in front of Soul. What Papa did shouldn’t get under her skin anymore; she should be over it by now. “I never wanted you to leave.”

“Yes you did.” There’s zero hesitation. As abrasive and immediate as the response is, she’s satisfied with the sincerity in his voice. “You told me to go to LA without you, Maka.”

She can’t help but feel like there’s something she doesn’t know. “I never said  _ don’t come back _ .”

“I can’t read your mind,” he says, temples jumping with how hard he sets his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, the rest of the apology lost.

“Don’t be.” He puffs air out through one corner of his mouth, sinking further into the loveseat. “I actually wanted to drop by to say sorry for being a jerk yesterday, but now I’m making it worse…” Another sigh. “If I shut up, will you come sit down so we can talk?”

How  _ romantic _ . Familiar. Maka pads across the hardwood floors she swept earlier to put her fidgety energy to good use, hands behind her back like a shy schoolgirl approaching her crush, like they haven’t done this a million times, like they might never do it a million more. “Do you have enough room for me?”

“Shit, who cares? You were always a seat hog, anyway.”

Absolutely  _ charming _ of him, with his big smirk and exasperated, amused eye roll, patting the seat next to him with boyish charm. Maka nestles herself in cautiously, hugging her knees close.

Soul is so brave, much braver than her. “Why are we… fighting?”

“We’re not,” she counters, biting her cheek in reprimand for the defensiveness. “Why are you such a grump?”

“I’m not,” he grunts, palm swiping at his eye as if wiping away sleep. “I’ve been in, uhm, pain. Headaches and stuff. And you know Wes annoys me.”

“I know you love him so much you can’t stand it.”

“... Yeah. But he’s different. We’re different people.” His arm comes up to rest on the back of the couch, almost swatching around Maka’s shoulders. “He’s excited about his wedding and when we were planning ours-”

_ Oh _ . That’s obviously a self inflicted wound because he even blindsides himself, pausing. They haven’t discussed their wedding since the night in bathtub, though she’s relived it every day.

“You were nervous,” she finishes for him, closing her eyes to disconnect from the pain. “You were nervous about the people there, watching you. Watching us... I was too. Nervous, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wished it could have just been you and me…” He clears his throat. “I don’t know, he got on my nerves yesterday. Wes gets everything he wants. And he’s not afraid of anything.”

Jealous Soul: the legend, the saga, the misfit who both craved attention but wasn’t equipped to deal with it once he received it because it was such a new experience, and the lack of self worth wouldn’t let him enjoy his rightful moment. Perhaps those feelings of inadequacy never fully die. Comparing himself to others has been his plight since before he met her, but it throws Maka off that the old wound has reopened this  _ deep _ .

She peeks through her eyelashes at him. The pleasant danger of being this close to him flusters her more than it frightens. “Isn’t it good to be afraid of things? If we didn’t have fear, there would be no chances to grow. To become stronger. We would be stagnant.”

“I don’t wanna be strong anymore. It’s a lot of bullshit. I wanna give in.”

“To what?” She’s on the verge of a revelation, but now she’s reliving New Year’s Eve. The longing that hit her then is back and becomes the only truth she knows. He’s frowning, and even then he’s got her hooked, all of his flaws important and inherently lovable. It’s his  _ mouth _ . Its capable of so much. He curses, he grimaces, he smarts off, he throws looks that could cut like a scythe, but he also compliments, consoles, and says the sweetest things,  _ understands _ . He gets to her.

She hugs her legs closer, resting her chins on her kneecaps.

_ Do not kiss him. Again. _

Three hard knocks on the glass door jolt Soul and Maka. Speak of the devil - Wes presses his nose against her office door, pointing at the door knob.

“Let me in! I just thought of some other things for the wedding!”

Soul scowls, sharp lines not diminishing his softness. “ _ God _ , Wes. Go home!”

Maka’s new obsession with the slant of her best friend’s mouth combusts, spreading like wildfire.


	5. but I really like flowers

“Don’t tell anyone, but I really like flowers.”

Tsubaki’s laugh is demure and inviting, moving a hand from the bouquet of roses she is preening and covering her grin. A response like this from anyone else would have activated Soul’s defense mechanism to pull away and vow never to reveal this tender side of himself again, but his future sister-in-law’s amusement stems from such genuine innocence that he makes an exception. Usually people tease him whenever he admits a personal tidbit - namely Jackie, lovingly of course, with good-natured harassing later on - so to be met with appreciation for his vulnerability catches him by surprise. No smartass remarks, no commentary at all except for pleasant conversation and a listening ear.

Even though he’s encountered Tsubaki a handful of times, this is his first time interacting with her without Wes or Maka present. It’s only natural to build a relationship - she’s marrying into his family and thus going to be around until the end of forever - but he hadn’t expected to cross so many barriers this early.

For once, Soul allows himself to be honest and let go of the brave face he puts on for the sake of the social anxiety inside him that won’t shut up. It’s a step in the right direction.

“I like beauty. There are so many stupid things in the world, it’s nice to look at things that don’t have a purpose but are still somehow meaningful.”

“Well, you’re a musician,” she says, fingering a petal, squinting in concentration. “That makes sense. You’re an artist.”

“Thanks,” comes out before he can think twice. Immediately a voice within berates him: _ that’s awkward, why did you say that, she probably thinks you’re a weirdo now, why are you like this? _

But whatever, he says back to it.

Tsubaki earns a chunk of his trust by thanking him in return. Like she understands how momentous this is - she probably does, seeing as Wes probably has told her all about Soul, his likes and dislikes, his mannerisms, his tendency to clam up.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” Soul sighs, taking in her humble flower shop again. Huge windows allow an ample amount of sunlight in, and every open space teems with color - reds, blues, yellows, pinks that remind him of Maka’s sheer curtains, and deep purples that look like the sunset coming through said curtains. He wonders if Maka still has them. “I know fugly when I see it. I know you’re too nice to say it, but I already know I’m total garbage at flower arranging. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s your first time! You’ll get better at it in no time, especially since you just said you like flowers.”

Maybe he’ll hire someone else. Hahaha. Tsubaki Nakatsukasa deserves better than ameauter floral arrangements for her lavish wedding, however earnest and diligent his attempts may turn out to be. The more he thinks about it, though, the more he convinces himself to go through with it for the same reasons. She wants that personal touch, that unconditional love no outsider can provide.

And then it hits Soul: that’s precisely why Wes asked Maka to plan his wedding.

_ Family _ .

Soul chokes up, coughing between choppy excuses that he breathed in at the wrong time and saliva hurried down his windpipe. Gentle Tsubaki panics, reeling back a hand to slap his back before regaining her composure and instructing him to put his arms up. Doing so opens up his chest, she claims, but it doesn’t work because nothing can cure his frequent babycrying whenever he thinks about his unrequited love dilemma.

No, no. He shouldn’t be harsh on himself. Honor his feelings and all that stuff Wes had preached yesterday before Tsubaki and Maka materialized in the penthouse and he lashed out during the planning, the wound still fresh, jealousy overriding his better senses. Not cool. And neither is chugging down a bottled water Tsubaki offers him in one breath, or lying about why he spit up like that, but some things can’t ever be discussed.

“I’ll try my best,” he promises once he can talk. “It’s not going to be perfect though.”

Tsubaki is beside herself, excitedly walking him through the basics of floral design: proportion, balance, harmony, color, and texture. It’s architecture, which she majored in and decided wasn’t the right fit after landing her first job in a cramped cubicle and derived zero satisfaction from mulling over lifeless blueprints.

“Maka’s actually the one who talked me into starting a flower shop here! It’s funny because that’s the main reason I decided to study abroad - my dad kept pushing for me run the family business. But when I finally went to visit my family in Japan… well, I missed the flowers, but I wanted to stay in the States.” Tsubaki hands him a rose, motioning him to add it to the vase they’re working to beautify. “She helped me move to Death City too, so I could be closer to Wes.”

Soul sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and gently gnaws on it, placing a rose between two others without much consideration because all his brainpower is stuck on his best friend. Yeah, he already knows Maka Albarn’s capacity to help people reach their potential. Many a time did she stand with him backstage before one of his recitals, sometimes holding his hand, knowing not to soothe him with sweet nothings. He didn’t want to hear them, and he kind of doesn’t want to hear what Tsubaki has to say right now, either. He feels himself closing off fast, like a flower in reverse bloom. What happened while he refused to fill an empty apartment in LA is lost to him, and should stay that way.

But he can’t be rude to someone who thanks him for opening up.

“It happened so fast. Maka found this place for me and had it secured within a few days after…”

He’s infinitely grateful she doesn’t finish that sentence with  _ after your wedding _ . He’s still sore. When will it go away?

“Wes felt bad that I moved out here for him, but I needed a fresh start anyway. Plus, Maka is my best friend, and it feels good to be near her.”

Yeah, that’s true, so true. He can relate.

“Funny how you and I never met before,” she muses, shrugging in a life-is-strange way. “I know you came up to visit Maka some weekends, but we never crossed paths.”

“Yeah, it was hard to get away sometimes. Going to different colleges was a weird time,” he concedes, quietly pleading for Tsubaki not to ask for more details. He caved under his loneliness, both due to missing her and his fear of failure. Even three hours away from his hometown, he held the reputation as a misfit, but that never mattered with Maka around. Her absence only highlighted his yearning to connect with  _ himself _ .

It’s not fair. She had made it look effortless too, like he’s easy to love. That’s a skill he’s still refining, but she has mastered it.

“I’m sure living in different states isn’t too bad, since you already had to go through something similar.”

It’s different than college this time. He and Maka weren’t pulling away and arguing then, weren’t hesitant to talk things out. But he’s not sure how to explain that without admitting he’s in over his head, fascinated by and devoted to her.

“Do you think you’ll ever move back?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies, fiddling with his awful rose arrangement. The brief memory of setting up a recurring order to Maka on their anniversary pops up while pricking himself with a thorn he missed cutting off earlier. He’d been so  _ dumb  _ back then, hadn’t met Tsubaki in person yet but still set up the yearly gift with her shop, probably giving away his true feelings during that euphoric phone call. The notion of asking Tsubaki if she cancelled the order would only add evidence to his idiocy, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Well, I do hope you consider it.” Tsubaki smiles at him, handing him neosporin and a bandaid from a first aid kit he hadn’t noticed sitting at the counter. Great, Wes must have warned her about Soul’s clumsy inclinations. “It would be great to have my brother-in-law in town. And Wes misses you like you wouldn’t believe.”

_ Oh _ . That didn’t lead to a lecture about Maka at all, like he had been dreading. He nods, throat closing at the reminder that he’s fenced himself off from his own family while runawaying from his heartbreak. He’s so tired of the sand clotting his tears, of holding back. Letting go would be ideal, but he has a long road ahead to unlearn this defense mechanism - it’s like he’s forgotten how to be vulnerable.

“Also, thinking back, I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.” She offers him a hand, which he accept wholeheartedly. “I’m Tsubaki.”

“I’m Soul,” he says, and for once it’s nice to know someone and be known.

X

It’s night, and he wants to be with Maka.

He’s sick. Maybe it’s not healthy to think of his feelings for his best friend as a disease, but it gets worse at night, like a relentless cough. His defenses defeated and down, his eyes closed, his thoughts floating in that liminal space between dreams and reality. He’s so tired. Alone, alone. It runs deeper than physical pain. He knows that love from someone else won’t fix his internal problems, but it helps teach him how to be gentler with himself. Maka leads by example; in her presence, his shortcomings don’t bite as deeply, and the future isn’t bleak, daunting.

Part of his can’t believe this is happening to  _ them _ , two people who’ve been more loyal to each other than most married couples. At the same time, they react similarly to rough patches: they break down, don’t communicate, and then can’t handle being apart. So when they finally reunite, they’re reminded of the good times, of how much they love each other, and they warm up to each other like simmering water finally boiling. But then something he can’t pinpoint causes them to pull away again, to go cold, and whatever’s at the source isn’t something either of them have confronted individually.

But Soul  _ knows  _ his problem, and it’s harder to avoid now that she’s kissed him. He knows his symptoms, knows the diagnosis, knows that the prognosis isn’t a positive one - Maka wouldn’t feel safe in a relationship like  _ that _ with him even if she did return his feelings. Though she doesn’t voice it, she’s still picking up the pieces after her papa’s affairs. The ensuing divorce isolated her from both parents, and her distrust in absolutes like ‘never’ and ‘forever’ and ‘always’ shows whenever she plans weddings and wonders aloud if the clients will last after the event is all said and done.

What terrifies Soul the most is the idea that she might know his problem  _ too _ .   

After all, he’s an idiot, an obvious one. Can’t tell her he loves her when she platonically says it first because it’d be too  _ real _ . Hating himself for his overzealous crush has become a hobby, but now that he can’t get that New Year’s Eve kiss off his mind, he’s been  _ thinking _ , and that’s _ bad  _ because it gets his hopes up. Soul respects her decision to flinch away when he leaned in to kiss her a second time, which is her right to exercise. The refusal isn’t what bruised - it’s the look of pure fear on her face when she did so, how deeply he relates to that terror of losing her he won’t gamble their friendship.

The nagging feeling that he’s misunderstanding some important clue to their problems won’t leave him in peace. Questions like  _ why would she kiss him? _ and  _ am I reading too much into it?  _ boil down to one simple, tremendous regret: he should have asked permission to touch her. He should have told her he thought he was over her, that he wanted to marry her  _ for real _ , that he’s confused by her actions lately, that he’d like to kiss her again.

That felt  _ real _ , too.

The truth is raw and blatant as he tries to sleep tonight, because Soul knows Maka through and through:  _ maybe _ …  _ maybe she meant that kiss. _

Soul’s eyes open, and he sits straight up, staring into the darkness.

_ Oh. _

X

At first, Soul doesn’t know why he’s marking his footsteps with red roses from a bouquet tucked under his arm, the flowers replenishing tirelessly. He’s in a white abyss, nothing around him, nothing in the horizon. Just red and green, careful not to prick himself. There’s no end to his endeavor, but he’s keeping on, keeping on, keeping on, keeping on…

But then he opens his eyes.

Right cheek smushed against the pillow, he’s belly down, the initial confusion that he’s not in his own bed in LA fading to annoyance at the vibrating rectangle under his chest as he rolls over. Yep. Falling asleep on his phone would do the trick - he grunts into it, eyelids heavy, like they’re glued together.

“Huhhlluh.”

“I’ve got you, bro.”

Soul wipes drool away from his chin. “Who is this?”

“It’s your bro, BlackStar.”

“ _ Ugh _ .” He flops back into the pillows, wanting the impact to knock him unconscious. “I don’t have time for this, Star. I’m hanging up-”

“Whatcha up to?” Sickly sweet,  _ pure _ , like a toddler asking his mother how her day went.

“Sleeping.”

By far the most meddlesome, forward, and flagrantly obnoxious, and weird outside Soul’s small squad, Blake ‘Star’ Black frequently gets epiphanies past midnight, and it seems like tonight, it’s about Soul. “Not anymore, now you’re talking to  _ me _ . I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at Wes’s party - too much sweet tea, passed out, whatever - and now I’m in Cali, working a stunt man gig. Why the fuck aren’t you here? What gives?”

_ I’m dying a little trying to save something important.  _ “I’m staying to plan my only brother’s wedding, you buttcrack.”

“I feel neglected. What about  _ me _ ? So you’ll only hang out with me if I get married?”

“I guess. Maka and me can probably plan your funeral or a bail posting party for you. Whichever comes first.”

“Maka Maka Maka _ Maka _ , that’s the only word in your vocabulary, bromine.”

“That’s a chemical element, Star.”

“Shut up, listen to me, brochip.” A pause, then there’s the sound of the TV switching off and the remote skidding across a tabletop, thrown with reckless abandon. “I’ve been hearing that you’re down in the dumps like some kind of trash. That’s what Jackie and Kim told me, that you moped around on New Year’s day.”

Soul Evans apparently forgot he’s not good at acting. He wears his heart on his sleeve. So, sue him. “It’s in my nature.”

“Well, it’s worrisome. I’m not gonna stand around and watch you wallow in your love over Fat Ankles.”

“Oh my GOD, let me live. I called her that once and you’re the only one who still brings it up. I swear if you remind her of that-”

“I have the answers to all your problems.”  _ Thump thump _ , Star probably smacking himself on his chest, as mighty as King Kong. “Marry  _ me _ , Soul. I got the vows ready.”

“I hate you for making me laugh. I’m supposed to be feeling emo right now, according to you.”

“I’m stronger and taller than her-”

“Pffft. Yeah, but not by much. For either of those.”

“No, listen though.” Serious Star is far more frightening than a patient being greeted by a solemn faced oncologist at a follow up visit. “I love you, and I would never leave you like she did.”

Sand everywhere - clumping in Soul’s throat, and all he can muster is a weak warning. “Star, stop.”

“Really! She left you dude, didn’t even call to say she wasn’t gonna come.” There’s rustling in the background, like Black*Star is tearing into a brand new bag of Doritos. Ugh, he probably is. “Like.”  _ Crunch, crunch _ . “You waited  _ so long  _ for her at the wedding, we all did. I mean, I fell asleep, but I was rooting for you two. Everyone knows you two love each other more than friends. I think you’re lying to yourself when you say you were okay after that night. I know that you’re lying, you know I know you’re lying, I know you know I know you’re lying, and-”

Soul forces out a gruff, “So what?”

“So, I think Maka knows you’re feeling emo but doesn’t know why, and I think you think she knows you know, and I think she thinks you think she thinks there’s something more - okay,  _ okay _ , my point is, I think you two are stupid dorks.”

Vehement denial would have been Soul’s first offensive move, but he’s so tired of running away, of lying to protect himself from people who aren’t out to harm him. Maybe he’s been going about this all wrong. There’s nothing wrong with loving Maka Albarn. The emotion itself fulfills him, mellows out life’s rough edges.

For once, Soul heeds Wes’s advice: honor his feelings. Right now, that task is like the equivalent to stepping out of airplane soaring thirteen thousand feet above the ground, but he hopes the fall is worth it to see if there’s a future with Maka in  _ that  _ way. A real one, and not a false alarm.

Except - he respects her to the earth’s end, and puts her first.

“But - what am I supposed to do? I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Or make her feel pressured.”

“HAHAHAHA!” Star’s guffaws take on a weezy, whooping effect, babbling to himself about, “Like Maka would let that slide” and “would kick you in the nipple” and “get outta here dude” and “she’d be so into you confessing.”

Soul closes his eyes, the highs and lows attached to that ‘what if’ making him feel impossibly small. “I don’t wanna ruin anything.”

“Nah, that’s the scared, hurt wimp inside you talking, and that’s okay. Just cry already, I’m here for you. Spit it out.”

“...You’re shit at this.”

“Also, I’m not trying to trash talk my brogirl Maka, just trying to set the record straight. Being the voice of reason. A cupid, if you will.”

“I won’t, no thanks.”

Star munches on his snack while Soul begins to accept that he’s in love with Maka Albarn, that he’s desperate to be loved in return.

“She misses you, too.”  _ Crunch crunch, hack, crunch. _

“Really?”

“Yeah, don’t act like you don’t know it. It’s gross and annoying. You can tell when people mention your name that she gets all  _ oh, when will my lover return from the war.  _ Y’all need to talk it out,  _ damn _ .” When Soul replies with silence, Black Star asks, “So… what’re you gonna do?”

“Sleep and think about this pep talk at a more reasonable hour, I guess. Thanks, Star.”

“No worries. I got you, brotato.”

X

Soul wakes up late, but Maka waits for him by the train station, shivering in her pea coat while adjusting the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. After all the recent strain, it’s a relief to know she didn’t give up on him and set out to venue hunt on her own - and that’s a double edged sword, a jab into his stomach. If their roles were reversed and Soul had been a no-show to to their wedding, would she have waited like he had?

“It’s the wind chill, okay, it makes it seem colder than what it is,” she defends before he can mouth off about her overreacting to the drop in temperature to cover up the fact he finds her cute all bundled up. “No bike today?"

“Nope. It’s been at Wes’s for safe keeping, remember? No room for it at Kim and Jackie’s. And it would have made me even more late if I had dropped by to get it.”

“Right,” she agrees, a hint of disappointment seeping through.

The sentiment is the same on his part, but that’s another thing he’s not ready to admit. The majority of rides on that bike have been together with her. While he’s willing to surrender to nostalgia and go out of the way to retrieve it from Wes’s private garage, traveling in that fashion would only worsen that awkward tension that arises whenever he and Maka touch. The time to pour himself out will come, just not now while he’s still on the verge of stumbling upon some deep-seated, elusive truth on her part.

Honestly, he just wants Maka back again, wants it to be better than before. They start down the sidewalk, side by side but not falling into step. Desperation almost convinces him to reach out and grab her hand, ask her to stay and work through this with him.  _ Don’t give up on us _ . Not a day goes by that he doesn’t pray to a deity he’s not sure exists for answers, but maybe he shouldn’t stand by and wait anymore.

If Soul gives himself some credit, he’s already been trying his damnest, in his own way, to cast a lifeline to her, and sure, her grip strength fluctuates, but she’s still holding on too. That’s all that matters to him - in the past, she’s been the one to lead them through bouts of miscommunication, but now it’s up to him to jumpstart something that could be  _ better. _

He gives her a sidelong glance. “I’m hungry. Wanna get brunch before we scout the venues out?”

Between her fluffball topped beanie cap and her scarf, the only part of her face Soul can see are her eyes - and they cloud with reluctance and worry. “But we’re already so behind schedule.”

“Ah - well, we can plan more while we’re there, seeing as Wes interrupted us yesterday.”

Usually Maka would jump right in at an invitation to brainstorm over tea or her favorite strawberry banana pancakes, but her eyebrows knit as she pockets her hands. He imagines her opening and closing her hands, a nervous habit of hers whenever uncertainty about a major life decision piles up and becomes too much to bear.

“Okay, but only because it’s cold.”

X

“Thank _ Death _ ,” she sighs as they enter the nearest diner, the bell above the door announcing their arrival. She peels off her scarf, carefully rolling it up before pulling off her cap, hair clinging to it thanks to static.

Soul snorts, resisting the itch to pat down her rebellious strands and pinch her nose, which is the same scarlet as her cheeks. “Your hair!”

“I can’t be held accountable for how it looks. It does what it wants in the winter.” She sticks her tongue out at her him, a small smile appearing as she tugs off her gloves.

The two follow a bored looking waiter to a booth, Soul oddly cut up that Maka chooses to sit across from him instead of beside. Yeah, that’s a pretty normal seating arrangement, but they used to sit together and rest their legs on the opposite seat and solve the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper together. Now that’s not going to happen. Little details like that speak to the state of their friendship, but at least reminding himself that he’s taking a step back to observe her more closely for missed signs offers some comfort.

Clue two is that she can’t meet his eyes. Menu spread flat in front of her, she points at the entree items as she reads. Soul can’t help but wonder how the hell they sunk to this low point, both of them walking on eggshells.

It only strengthens his resolve. The decision makes his heart beat like a gong, but he’s going to do it.

“I was thinking we can check out the country club, and a few hotels in the area,” she’s saying, like they’re more business partners than best friends. “I guess we could have made a few calls beforehand, but it’s better to get a firsthand look at everything.”

Soul nods. “Hotels will probably be better, since guests from out of town can book a room.”

“Yeah, if they can afford it. I’m just glad they want to stay in Death City and not somewhere else.”

“ _ Ugh _ , you’re right. We’re lucky he didn’t try to make it in Hawaii or something.”

Silence. And then: “I’m freaking out.”

Crappy brother that he is, Soul’s lost sight of what has temporarily anchored him to Nevada - the  _ wedding _ . “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Six  _ months _ , Soul. Six!” Maka shakes her head, the reality of it still sinking in. “And we need to book the photographer, the  _ videographer _ , the caterer, all those entertainments Wes and Tsu mentioned, and get the save-the-date cards out as soon as possible - and Tsubaki asked me to be the maid of honor, so there’s the bridal shower. Oh, and the rehearsal dinner’s going to be just as extensive to set up.”

Dread replaces his appetite. He folds his menu and places it behind the ketchup and mustard bottles, content with nibbling off the crepes Maka orders. Bonding over their anxiety feels more normal, and for a second Soul remembers sitting at their apartment, planning the ins and outs of her business.

He clicks his fork down against the plate. “I’m bringing the flowers, we’ll be okay.”

Maka’s eyes widen, a certain wistfulness in her gaze. ”Do you promise we’ll be okay?”

“Of course.”

Flowers aren’t everything, but they’re a start. He’ll learn to arrange them, he’ll do more than his best. That’s why he booked those anniversary bouquets to Maka - he had burned to let his feelings be known in some way, and he wanted to be vague enough for the gesture to be misconstrued as a platonic admission and not a confession. Too bad the order was cancelled after Maka left him at the altar.

Maybe he should have had them sent anyway, along with the card.

Ah, what was it that he wanted written on it? It was real, it contained the only absolute she trusts, and still stands unchanged to this date.

_ Oh _ , yeah:

_ I still love you. _

X

Climbing up to Maka’s apartment with the night at their heels opens old wounds. Homesickness, the kind that cuts deeper than skin. Drowsiness hits him like his body’s reliving the times he stumbled home to Maka after a gig, ready to stay up way too late just to be near her for a while longer. Telling himself that he’s not following her inside and  _ staying _ is more disconcerting than consoling, especially after realizing that he didn’t have to walk her to the door.

Not like he’s going to… Kiss her goodnight or whatnot. But he wants to. “Bye, sleep well… See you tomorrow for venue hunting part two?”

“Wait,” she says, leaning against the door with her hands behind her back. The porchlight casts her eyes in shadow. “Papa says you waited for me.”

Soul inexplicably thinks about the card, still unsent:  _ I still love you _ . “Yeah.”

Maka’s mouth is a flat line, chin rumpling, but she holds her composure. “I’m so  _ sorry _ .”

“No, c’mon, you didn’t do anything.”

“Hear me out though.” She gasps for breath, eerily still save for her chest settling down. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I… I could have still shown up like that. With the dress all messed up.”

The revelation is worse than a slap in the face. “Oh.”

She huffs out, seemingly at war with herself. “But I didn’t. I was afraid.”

He begs himself to stay composed, shrugging to show that it’s forgiven. “S’okay. I think we both were.”

“No!” Her voice cracks, and Soul finally understands that she’s hanging by a thread, that she’s been quietly suffering, and all he wants to do now is help ease it away. “Stop being so  _ nice _ . Why aren’t you mad at me? Hate me.”

“I can’t do that.”

Oh, and she’s  _ pissed _ , tensing up, fists probably balled up, face reddening from the perceived injustice.  “Why?”

“Cause you didn’t  _ not _ show up on purpose.”

She’s shrill, five octaves higher, neck visibly straining. “But I  _ did _ !”

“Oh,” he breathes, not wanting to exist anymore.

She wipes at her eyes with a shaky hand. Something warns Soul he’ll see a lot more of this - more almost breakdowns, more outbursts they’ll have to explain to each other. “But I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says, and he’d still believe in her good intentions even if she had said she  _ had _ meant to harm.  _ Looking  _ at her hurts, and for once, he’d choose solitude over her company. “I feel like this is something we’re gonna have to talk about over several conversations, not all at once… is that okay?”

She nods, sniffling.

“I want to be your friend again,” he says, gulping. “I know it sounds stupid, because we never stopped, but… I miss you.”

A small whimper, and then she agrees. “That’s what I feel too.”

Relief is Soul’s eyes welling, too. “So… deal? We’ll talk it out, little by little?”

“Deal.”

Goodnights are made of promises to see each other again in the morning. They lessen the fear of loss and reinforce Soul’s decision to confess at the end of this long, slow conversation they’ve committed to having despite the poignancy. When she says, “I love you” as she closes the door, it clicks in his head, it hits, it  _ resonates _ .

Maka Albarn had said those same words after the bike ride to her place a few days ago, when she bid him goodnight while they were living together, and in the bathtub after she  _ left _ him. She said it every day they worked to plan their wedding, after he brought up the pact as they washed the dishes one evening, when they made it in high school, and before that even, way before. He wishes he could remember the first time she told him because this is what he’s been missing all along, and he’s so wobbly-kneed with the possibility that it’s  _ true _ , so liberated, so hopeful, so devastated that he’s so late, so feverish to know.

Maybe she doesn’t say she loves him out of habit. 


	6. a fault of mine

The hardest thing about spending hours alone with her best friend is not kissing him.

Opportunity is everywhere - while he's leaning back in her office chair researching venues on his phone, while they're venting about Death City's limited options and panicking about the seemingly impossible wedding timeline, or even now, while he's sprawled out on the loveseat. Long legs hanging off the couch's side, he drapes his arm over his eyes, leaving his mouth exposed, prime for lip locking.

She's her own worst enemy, an odd combination of weak and stubborn. Can't remember when she _wasn’t_ a goner, yet refuses to come clean. Setting up camp at her desk while he takes a break from the frustration at hand, she alternates between shamelessly staring at him whenever her attention span betrays her and following up with other clients. Currently, emailing is safer than phone calls because her vocal cords are swollen with how much she's moved by Soul's tireless, patient support, by the idea that she should go over there and fix this with action instead of words.

But this is different. They aren't submerged in liminal pink lighting, in the euphoria of starting a new year with her soulmate at her side. Yes, her rationality has been replaced by longing, just like on New Year's Eve, and she's willing to risk the poignant consequences attached to kissing him… but her respect for him and need to preserve her own dignity put up a fight.

Maka can't stomach the temptation anymore, scooting her chair back, gliding across to him on light feet like a ghost. She leans over him, mouth burning, burning, burning, closing her eyes, hand over her chest. In the rush of passion and thrill, her mind bursts with an _idea_ to save themselves from at least one mess.

The epiphany snaps her eyes open.

"I think we have to start bribing," she says, sucking her lips between her teeth for restraint. Self control. Don't bridge the distance, distance is excellent. “For a venue.”

Soul moves his arm to rest on his forehead, peering at her through thick eyelashes, blinking with nervous hesitance when a bundle of hair comes loose from behind her ear and dusts his nose. "Bribe?"

"Yeah, like." She reigns in the rogue hair, hyper aware of how close she is but too exhilarated to move. "With money. We can call the DWMA Resort and offer them some cold hard cash to book us and kick out whoever reserved it for the weekend of Wes and Tsu's wedding. It's perfect. And we don't have any other options."

No reaction at first. Soul's eyes darken as he contemplates, and she thinks - how would he look at her if he loved her? Like this, with heat, with sheer admiration, with certainty? The loveseat creaks as props himself up on his elbows, that boyish smirk flowering on his face, completely kissable, so confident and amused by her idea.

So close. She's a statue adorned with flesh, one that wants nothing more than to move in halfway to meet him as he seems to reach for her, stopping as abruptly as he started.

He licks his lips. "... My parents did say they have nothing but money to spend on their sons."

"And love." Heat flares up on her cheeks.

"We should go in person," he says, baring his teeth in a grin, lone dimple appearing on his left cheek. He had smiled this openly after the countdown, when they parted and scanned each other's faces, still intertwined.

She lets go of her hair and offers him a hand. "Shall we go right now?"

"Yeah, but let’s say some prayers, because I'm not good at groveling." There's no doubt when he takes her hand, and while she's not thrilled to straighten out her back and pull him up because it means she missed out on a kiss, she's touch starved, and this morsel of brief contact will stave her off.

"Leave the talking to me, as usual." She gives him a once over, not ashamed to find the details that come together to make her best friend beautiful: thick brows, long lashes, a perpetual sleepiness to him. "And you should probably go home and change. Put on something nice, since we need to be make a great first impression."

Except it had slipped her mind that Soul in a suit is devilish, and _handsome_. Soul is every bit the refined, elegant Evans heir his parents raised - shoulders less rounded, posture straightener, like wearing slacks and a button up brings out cool boldness. In the taxi on their way to the resort, Maka turns her head the other way whenever she flushes, castigating herself for reveling in this burst of inexplicable giddiness, but returning his beam all the same.

Sliding out of the cab first, he helps her out, and they stroll into the resort not only looking like a million bucks but _feeling_ it, too.

Together, ready to take on the world.  

Like old times.

X

“Your bubble tea’s on me.”

Maka pauses digging in her coin purse to wrinkle her nose at him. “No way. I’m a business woman who’s made her own way by making people happy through the power of planning-”

“No, _Maka_ ,” he drawls, twirling a familiar black credit card between two fingers. The names Mr. and Mrs. Evans flash in her mind’s eye. He winks. “I _got_ you.”

There's nothing like closing a deal to get them in a good mood. Their dispositions had been the same after they had booked a place for _their_ wedding, but Maka won't allow that memory or the reminder of her missed opportunity to asphyxiate her right now. She already has her plate full stopping herself from pulling a New Year's Eve countdown kiss again, hands twitching with the impulse to tug him down by the nape of his neck.

“ _Oh,_ okay.” She zips her purse shut, happy to give in. “Then that’s fine. I want extra tapioca balls, thank you, Mr. Evans.”

“No problem, Ms. Albarn.”

Sorrow shoots through her chest, the corners of her mouth automatically pulling back into an empty smile. _She_ could have been an Evans, too.

The pink neon lights lining the menu board color his hair the same exact shade as he surveys the cafe’s bookshelf lined walls and mismatched couches and coffee tables. “Haven’t been here in a long time. Looks the same.”

Honey almond milk tea in hand, Maka leads them to their once usual window-side, worn booth, placing her purse between them as a barrier. More for his protection - or maybe hers. She doesn’t trust herself.

“Even our names are still here.” He points out their carved named amongst all the others, already sipping away at his drink. Originally it had read simply _Maka and Soul were here_ , but over the years, someone etched a heart around their names, and the latest addition consists of an arrow from Soul’s name to a terribly scrawled _sux a bag of dix._ “ _Cute_. It was probably Star, that silly idiot.”

Maka’s cheeks pinch with a giggle, turning her drink upside down and rightside up, upside down and rightside up, upside down and rightside up… Keeping busy. “We’re probably celebrating too early. We still have lots-”

“Shh, we’re okay.” To her pleasant horror, Soul shimmies out of his blazer, leaving it discarded around his waist instead of neatly folding it up to avoid wrinkles. “We have the venue, so we can book the entertainment and pretty much everything else. We got a big step out of the way. I’m good with that.”

She stabs her straw through the film covering her cup, failing to cage up her feelings for Soul and their wedding, and the lingering what _if’s_ attached to both. “True…”

“And uh…” He traces their names on the table absentmindedly. “Now we can send out the save-the-date cards.”

Maka bites down on her straw, bites down _hard,_ and grates, crushing the plastic. Irony is her heartbeat hammering in her ears while the rest of her body slows down at the mere mention of harmless _save-the-dates_ . She envisions ink spilling down the front of the lacy bodice, an explosion of black. Suddenly she’s _there_ again on that day, screwing up, hysterical, defeated.

Soul is gentler with her than she treats herself. “I can take care of them, if you want.”

“No, it’s okay.” She’s nothing if not brave, nothing, _nothing_. “I’ll do it. Tsu deserves handmade invitations. I still do them for other clients too, so my calligraphy skills aren’t out of practice.”

“If you’re sure…”

She’s not. More than a year stands between today and that date, but she’s learned time doesn’t exist when she’s constantly repressing thoughts and words and curiosities and _hope_.

Part of her insists they’re _only_ best friends. Nothing more, nothing less. He had joined the student council to spend more time together when she had won the presidency their senior year, helped her set up her new bed frame in their apartment, and accepted her bathtub confession with respectful silence. But friends don’t promise to marry each other, and if they do, they try again if one of them doesn’t show up. The groom doesn’t wait until four in the morning like he’s expecting to hop on the last train home. His heart doesn’t visibly break.    

“Hey, Soul?”

He scratches his head. “Hmm?”

“ _Why_ did you wait for me so long?”

“Because I wanted to marry you,” he says instantly.

She blinks. There’s no space to think. “But I spilled ink on my dress, Soul.” _It wasn’t perfect_ , she wants to say, _it wasn’t real_. “It was over then. It was a sign.”

“But I would have married you no matter what. Rain or snow or whatever. And last night you had said you should have...” He takes a sip of his drink, muscles in his temple jumping as he munches on a tapioca ball. “I wish… I don’t know. I wanted you to be there so bad, Maka.”

“You wanted me to be there,” she echoes, the words foreign. She could ask _why_ , but chances are high he would reply with _because you’re my best friend_. “I wanted to be there, too.”

“I missed you.” Lately, he’s been the brave one, leading them through difficult conversations and healing, and she’s glad for his strength. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when the ink got on your dress. I think I regret that the most.”

Maka’s phone rings, cutting through the tension thickening the air, and she forwards the call to voicemail. “Wait, what, why?” Her heart races like she’s on a roller coaster, about to nose dive. “Do - do you regret the pact we made, too?”

“No. I’d do it again.”

“I didn’t mean to break it, you know. I panicked. I would have married you, but-” _Buzz buzz_ her phone sings again, and she spares a glance at the screen: Liz. _Oh no_ , Maka must have forgotten something. “I’m _so sorry_ , Soul, I didn’t mean to break the promise. I was afraid.”

More ringing in the background, insistent and shrill, overstimulating.

Up close, Soul’s eyes have flecks of red. “Why?”

Maka opens like skin meeting a sharp edge. “I wanted the marriage to be re-”

_Oooo I’m a rebel just for kicks now_ , the song belts out from her clasped hands, _your love is an abyss for my heart to eclipse, now_.

Soul freezes, looking breathless. Stunned.

_Might be over now but I feel it still,_ her phone blares before pausing and starting over.

“I have to go,” she blurts out, pulling her hat on, adjusting her scarf. Forget pulling weeds, for talking things out, starting anew gradually. Concentrating is impossible with Liz’s back to back calls, and she’s said _too_ much to Soul Evans and can’t take any of it back.

She’s hot and cold, on and off, out of her seat and running away.

“I’ll walk you home-”

_Might be over now but I feel it still,_ her phone chimes.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll go alone!”

Cold cold, off off. Holding her palm out to him stops him from rising. Subdued, he sinks back into the booth, bringing the straw back in his mouth, waving a small, unsure goodbye.

X

Halfway home, Maka’s annoyingly chipper ringtone cuts through her ruminating, though part of that irritation transforms into guilt once she fishes out her phone from the depths of her purse and identifies the caller. On the too bright screen, Liz’s name flashes below her cropped picture.

“Hi?”

“Maka! It’s Friend Date Night, hurry up and come over. Jackie and Kim said they’d come later, but Tsu’s here and we’re watching Pride and Prejudice. Then we’re gonna online shop for sexy stuff for her honeymoon.”

“Oh - I, I’m... On my way to the office, actually.” Grimacing, _truly_ sorry for ditching her friends, Maka scrambles for a justification to miss another get together, and crosses the street in the direction of her office, so that there’s slight truth to her story. “I was going to work from home, but I forgot my laptop, so I’m going to pick it up.”

“Boo, _noooo_. C’mon, we haven’t seen you since New Year’s.” When Maka protests that she can’t procrastinate because her clients have placed the utmost faith in her, Liz shifts to begging: “Maka, please? You need to relax every now and then. Forget about work.”

“I’m dying, though.”

“Die with us, we’re just gonna complain, too. Please? Patti has an update on who she thinks stole her umbrella when she fell asleep on the bus.”

“... Sorry.”

“No worries. But - promise you and me can get together soon? Brunch maybe?”

_Soon_ , Maka promises, but she breaks those regularly like she snaps hair ties.

X

No matter how many times Maka takes the card out from under her desk mat, its message never changes, never wavers.

_I still love you_ , it reads.

It's neither an answer or a declaration. It's a statement, a fact, everlasting and unflawed. It's sweet as honey, and just like it, she can't savor the message too long because the overdose of sweetness chokes her up. Too much of a good thing is bad, bad, bad, but so is she, so it should cancel out. She wants _too_ much. Her best friend, a life together, to be loved. The message tempts her to believe she _can_ have it all - it says so, right there, on a cream colored card that she can fit in her hand. That's her whole world, all her insecurities and hopes in her palm.

They're little, but her feelings aren't. Maybe she should have let Soul walk her home, for that selfish part of her that wants him so badly it makes her dizzy. Now she's caught up in wishing Soul was on the couch so she could go back and correct her mistake. Maybe there’s something there, right below the surface, and all she has to do is restart something that never completely died.

But even if he sent the card, he's not admitting to it, hasn't mentioned it, and as days go by, her anxiety over it spikes and her hope declines. They were just friendship flowers, nothing more.

After she stows her laptop in her backpack, another idea buds in her mind’s eye: she can’t drop her feelings, but she can pack them away.  

"I need help," she says aloud, hiding the card away for the hundredth time.

X

Maka abandons her laptop on the coffee table and nestles into the couch, tucking her legs under her and smoothing out a blanket over her lap. Life’s less ugly at home, with a mug of hot chocolate held tightly in her hands.

"Mama, how did you get over Papa?"

"Distance," is her mama's reply from behind her in the kitchen, punctuated by a cupboard closing. "And for a long time after I left him, I still wanted him to be the partner I wanted. I didn't expect perfection, but I wanted loyalty, and your father wasn't built like that."

Maka frowns. "That must have been so hard, Mama."

"It was," she concedes, now right in front of Maka, holding out a bag of marshmallows. Maka extends her mug and her mama adds in a fistful before cuddling up next to her. "But it's not anymore. I'm okay."

"How long did it take to feel better about… everything?"

Mama pops a marshmallow in her mouth. "Months... years? It came and went."

Blowing on her chocolate serves as a distraction. This is one of those conversations that has spanned years, opening the wound and closing it, waiting for scar tissue to build, and then tearing it wider. Talking about her papa's flaws both offends and validates Maka’s childhood memories – her papa flirting with other women, her papa surprising her mama with flowers for ‘his special girl’.

Maka guesses the other ladies weren’t special, they just... _were_.

"It’s his loss," her mama shrugs. The two make eye contact and spurt into laughter - not at her papa's expense, but at the ease that she delivered her reply. "He knows it too, Maka. He knows."

“Were you ever actually happy with him?”

Mama contemplates, chewing slowly on marshmallow after marshmallow until she finds the right words. “There were moments. When things were good, I was the happiest I’ve ever been, but when it was _bad,_ it was terrible. I decided it didn’t balance out. I had enough.” She wedges an arm around Maka, head on Maka’s shoulder. The weight and warmth is grounding, reassuring. “Sometimes love doesn’t work, and if it does, it just… leads into a dead end eventually. And that’s okay, it’s completely human.”

“Papa _still_ loves you, though. He knows he messed up, but he still loves you. How did you stay strong?” Maka squints into her hot chocolate. Papa had torn their family apart, but her mama could have sewed it back together, if only temporarily. Maybe some things aren’t meant to last. “He begged you to come back so many times, but you never did.”

“I made a decision and I wasn’t going to let myself down,” Mama says easily. “We worked well together on short terms, but in the long run, we weren’t good for each other. He cheated on me too many times, and I forgave him too many times. So I had to make the hardest decision of my life - leaving behind my first love.”

“But…” Maka gulps, the last bit striking a sore chord. “When do I know when to give up or go on?”

“I don’t know, Maka,” she says, but she does have hugs and more hot chocolate. As Maka finishes another mug, she concludes that her papa must have struggled with the exact same demon - when and how to let go of the person they love. But going to him for advice would feel like crashing head first into a street pole. Then again, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and she’ll have to confront him eventually. She’s too much like Spirit Albarn. Sentimental, book-adoring, bullheaded, love-sick fools.

She’s stuck. _Stuck_ . Going nowhere, because he doesn't feel the same. So she decides she _must_ put these feelings for Soul down somewhere. They're too heavy to carry. She should travel light for her own wellbeing, too. Going on and off, hot and cold - it’s unfair to both of them.

But she's at a loss on how to begin the process.

X

"Come over," Soul says when she answers her phone, like their relationship isn’t on the rocks. “I’m at Kim and Jackie’s.”

Her toes tingle, scrunching them up in her bunny slippers as water drips from her wet hair to her shoulders. "Uhm." Swallows hard. Resisting feels a lot like dying. She'll have to die a little everyday until she's over it, over him. "Why?"

"Wes is here and wants to serenade us."

"I'm..."

Lord, objecting because she's clad in nothing but a lacy bralette and oversized pajama bottoms wouldn't hold up because she can hear his reply: put some clothes on Maka, Wes is summoning you like the demon you are. And of course she'd spit back that she's an angel, thank you, and he's the bad egg in this duo, and he'd spell out all of her misdeeds that he's probably kept record of in a Google document.

"It's late. I was heading to bed," she finally says, cringing at how incredibly wimpy the excuse sounds. The problem isn't Soul, but her, her and the accursed time. It's night. Her feelings for him worsen when the sun isn't around, like all terrible and unholy things that come out after dark, and what with almost kissing him when his guard was down, she can't guarantee she'll swerve away next time.

"I'll pick you up," he offers.

Riding down the freeway, the wind in her hair, holding onto him like she would something she lost and found. Ahh, how can she say no? She could cry, but she already left her tears in the shower, and they smelled like almonds. "Will you really?"

"Yeah. Wes dusted off his old violin and wrote a song for Tsu. Says he wants to play it at the wedding.”

Oh. Business first, yeah, yeah. Still, her stomach sinks to her now cold toes. Soul hadn't called specifically to see _her_ , which means it’s okay to accept his ride. She throws on a hoodie, Mama emerging from her room with a suitcase at the same time - a new lead in her case: _might not be home for awhile, be nice to your father, remember to eat, listen to your heart_.

"I love you, Mama," she says, needing to hear someone say it in return and mean it more than she can imagine. Mama kisses her on the cheek and repeats her words back to her, but it's not Soul saying it back in _that_ way, and Maka can't help but feel like a horrible person.

X

Intimacy is closing her eyes in Soul’s presence. Listening to music through one earbud while he uses the other, laughing so hard she tears up and her abs scream at her for days, eating a meal he cooked, riding backseat on his motorcycle. Letting her guard down. It entails vulnerability, but still guarded, like at the café earlier.

But, that was then, and this is now. A Mercedes-Benz Coupe pulls up by her, so black and mirrorlike she watches bewilderment play out on her own face and defining each broken strand of the frizz halo-ing her head.

The window rolls down. Soul grins at her from the driver’s seat, cool as fuck.

She whistles admiringly. Deep down, the change of transportation wounds – there’s considerable detachment this way, the console and cup holders creating a divide she wished for but can’t force herself to want. No rumbling of the motorcycle engine, no closeness. It’s how it should be from now on.

“Hey yourself! Nice wheels. When did you get it?”

“Pffft, nah. It’s Wes’s. He said you deserve to ride in style. I’m but a humble servant. Climb in!”

Maka cants her head. “As my chauffeur, aren’t you supposed to open the door for me?”

“Nope. Door’s always unlocked for you,” he says, softening. Vulnerable. “Come in whenever you want… Whenever you’re ready.”

X

Frigid - that's the word to describe Jackie.

Maka can’t help but compare the tamed, split second hostility to walking straight into a lion’s den. "What would you do if you were left at the altar?" echoes in her head, sucking her back to that moment in Liz and Patti’s apartment, her friend’s apprehensive eyes on her as the talk show carried on, as she pretended not to hurt, as the caller howled on the air...

Loyal, tenacious, and overprotective of her friends, Jackie’s ability to hold grudges long after the problem has been resolved could have already earned her a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records. Though the second-hand resentment fails to blindside Maka – Jackie’s friendship with Soul has roots in freaking _daycare_ , and she’s always been more Soul’s friend than Maka’s - this fact doesn’t dull the sense of being grossly misunderstood. The injustice of it boils her blood as much as it catalyzes her nagging fear that maybe she’s speaking on Soul’s behalf, that their friends have chosen _sides._

Either way, Maka can’t afford to show weakness. She frowns right back at Jackie’s steely gaze as Soul walks up beside her and Kim pops out of the hallway, bubbly and oblivious and earnestly throwing her arms around Maka.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in years. We were just on our way out to Friend Date Night! Head over once you’re done, we’ll be waiting for you.”

Jackie’s dead stare contradicts her wife’s statement, but Maka promises she’ll _try_ , she really will, even if catching Soul beckon Jackie to the door behind Maka to _talk_ sets her on edge. To worsen the situation, a violin begins playing, climbing up and down a scale from somewhere in the house – it’s Wes, strolling toward them, probably.

“How the hell _dare_ you?” comes Jackie’s voice not even three beats later.

“ _Jackie_ ,” Soul says warningly.

It’s a seething whisper, an undertone to the violin’s sweet singing. “… _Left_ you... already told you… coincidence.”

Kim shrugs at an unnerved Maka in a jaunty what-can-you-do sort of way, ignorant to the tangible tension mounting between Soul and Jackie. “Text me when you’re on your way.”

That won’t happen, not with the scrutiny on her lately, not with someone asking her if she’s okay every which way she turns. Friend Date Night would be an invitation for prying and lying and facing emotions she already decided to drop and bury. Nope, no thanks.

Wes emerges from the other hallway, squeaking his scale to a halt on the second to late note. “Oh, good, you’re here!”

“You can at least give us a ride in Wes’s car,” Jackie is saying as Wes informs Kim of her spare bathroom’s lack of toilet paper. With all the different conversations booming around her, Maka’s sense of self deteriorates, being torn in every direction.  

“No,” Soul retorts to Jackie, “you can drive your own car, or walk or whatever, I don’t really care.”

“What if we get a flat tire on the way and get kidnapped? How could you sleep at night then?”

“Like a newborn baby feeding from a titty.”

“C’mon, Jackie,” Kim coaxes, grinning at her house guests as she hauls away a disgusted-looking Jackie.

“Sit, sit,” Wes pleads once the door shuts and they’re standing in newfound silence, aglow with childlike excitement. He motions for Maka to plop herself on the couch and for Soul to take the spot next to her. Instead, to her bittersweet disappointment, Soul perches on the couch’s arm. “Would you like some sweet tea, Maka?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll have yours for you,” Wes says, chugging from a cup he had apparently set out for her, then placing it back on the coaster, not a care in the world. “Okay, so I want to play at the wedding. I’ve been working on this song for a while, but I feel rusty, since it’s been a few years since I stopped performing. I was thinking I could play it at the reception, and the lights could dim, and have a spotlight on Tsubaki-”

“Just play already,” Soul says, bad mood radiating off him like a furnace.

Patience is Wes’s trademark. An honest and gallant charmer, the elder Evans heir’s reputation for his infinitely sympathetic and soothing aura is comparable to a saint. Watching his easy-going composure slightly crack intimidates Maka, who wrings her hands together to distract herself from the fact that she shouldn’t be a witness to this interaction between the brothers.

“Calm down, baby bro. It's okay to be hurt, but it's not okay to hurt others because you're hurt.”

“I’m not _hurt_ ,” Soul snaps back.

“Why are you hurt?” she almost asks, but the realization that he'd only lie to spare her feelings shuts her up.

“Oh- _kay_ ,” Wes concedes unbelievingly, briefly narrowing his eyes at his brother, his annoyance palpable.   

From then on, Soul limits his commentary to pointers about legatos and other musical technicalities that stretch far beyond Maka’s understanding.

X

Wes rarely stumbles, and if he does, he recovers with the grace of a ballerina. Instead of toppling over Maka sitting on the porch steps when he flies out of Kim’s house closer to midnight, he hops safely to Maka’s side, a guttural _ooof_ the only indication he had been caught off guard. Running the palm of his hands over his sides to iron down any rumples the incident may have wrought on his shirt, he casts an inquisitive look at Maka, who meets it impassively.

"You didn’t call your dad, did you? You don't have a ride home."

_I should get better at covering up my lies_ , she thinks, too decimated inside to care right now. "I didn’t. I don't."

"Let’s go, I'll take you.” He points the key fob to the car Soul parked in the driveway, the lights and engine stirring to life.

Maka sticks to her guns. It occurs to her, as she stands too and brushes dirt off her pajama bottoms, that Soul isn’t the only Evans she needs to stay away from. “No thanks… I think I need a walk to clear my mind. Walking should help.”

“Sure. May I ask why you’re still sitting here, then?”

"I’d rather not talk about it.”

His forehead wrinkles, aging him considerably. "Are you okay?"

It sinks in. Wes _could_ have been Maka’s brother-in-law. He’s family she lost, too, like her papa and mama. The pain spun by loss manifests physically, like a fire swelling in the pit of her stomach, and a fatigue washes over her that no amount of sleep can cure. Getting over Soul also means detaching herself from Wes, and that’s impossible, what with planning his wedding to her best friend. She’ll have _no one_ , nowhere safe.

“I’m fine, just fine,” she says, gears in her head turning.

When the wedding’s over, she’ll be gone. That’s one promise she can keep, at least.


	7. maybe she once loved him

Maybe she  _once_ loved him.

Soul aches and waits at her side, exactly like he has done in the past. Planning, supporting, brainstorming, handling mess ups, being there for her,  _with_  her. It's his duty as her best friend, and he's glad to be home. Whenever the two of them join Wes and Tsu in their search for a band for the reception, he sits beside Maka and closes his eyes to listen to the music, wishing he could reach over and hold her hand, just for a little bit.

Days go by, and he's _stuck_.

As the bus lurks to a stop and he follows her off and into the windy, icy night, Soul finally accepts that inaction is a fault of his. Closing himself off lead to these bumps in their relationship: clumsy silences, misunderstandings, lost time. If he could only  _show_ her how he feels, he'd fix this and heal their bruises, but uncertainty holds him back.

Maybe she  _still_  loves him. In that way.

"I'll walk you home," he offers, but ever since it almost sounded like she wished their marriage had been  _real_ , she turns down chances to meet up unless it's wedding planning related. Respecting her privacy is a priority for him, even if the lingering sense that she's sidestepping him purposely  _scares_  him.

He's walking a fine line between chasing her away and letting her go.

"Mmm, I have to… stop by my papa's place," she says weakly. Back in high school, she would've jumped at spending more time together with Soul, away from the father who reeked of other woman's perfume whenever he hugged her, but that was then and this is now.

"Can you walk me home then?" It's worth a shot. Honesty is his new policy. "I'm kinda tired and I don't want to be alone."

Under the streetlight, Maka's green eyes take on a certain darkness he can't read. Hopefully he'll bridge the gap between them enough to learn more about this side of her, but from where he stands, she's not in a good place. It looks like ambivalence, like worry, like a war zone but with the chaos eerily muted.

"That's funny," she replies, tugging down her wool hat further. "Not in a haha sort of way, but the coincidence is uncanny because I was feeling the same, to be honest."

A small smile brightens her features then, one that makes his stomach feel funny and content. She bites down on her lip, dimming herself on purpose, but at least the happiness is there fleetingly.

Soul can't pretend he's not in love. "Who knows… Maybe we both feel the same way about a lot of things, and don't even know it?"

X

"Tsubaki and I were talking, and…We want to change the wedding theme."

Soul curses, feeling like a tea kettle whistling, steam fuming from both of his ears. Waking up today and stumbling over to Wes's place for 'brotherly bonding' had been a  _mistake_. He should have joined Tsubaki and the girls at their dress fitting appointment - at least he wouldn't have been forced to eat three soggy crepes. "We're a  _month_  into the planning, Wes, how could you do this to us?"

Wes pours himself more sweet tea and then tips the pitcher toward Soul's empty glass, who slides it away with the back of his hand harsher than intended. A pang of regret ripples through him as Wes blinks stupidly at the now barren countertop - why is he behaving like a tantrum-throwing toddler to his  _brother_? - but then Maka's face materializes in his head. She's been sleepless, working nonstop, and with these changes underway, her compulsion to meet impossible demands by herself will worsen.

But - that's why Soul extended his leave from work even farther, for emergencies like this. He's damage control.

"Okay, okay, it's fine," he sighs, more for his own benefit, reciting a speech for Maka to stave away a panic attack that will surely strike. "It's your wedding, you can do what you want. We'll make it come true."

"We want a Garden of Eden feel. Heavenly, with lots of greenery and flowers, silk drapes everywhere, and white lighting, something really bright but not so much that people can't see."

Wrist cramping from pressing the pen too hard into his notepad, Soul's head spins with snapshot images of the paintings from the art history class he flunked out of, wishing he had paid more attention. "Please don't tell me you want mythical creatures there too."

"Of course not." He pauses, drinking half his glass in one gulp like the true sugar addict he is, but that's a topic Soul doesn't possess the stamina to tackle until after the couple's honeymoon. "We do want ice sculptures of doves though."

"Oh… kay."  _Frozen birds_ , Soul scrawls on the paper, doodling wings and a lone feather. "So, the color scheme isn't the same anymore, is it?"

"You guessed it, yeah. Tsu and I think neutral colors are much classier and fit our aesthetic better. Greens, white, pinks. Colors found in the perfect garden."

 _I hate this_ , Soul catches himself writing as Wes prattles on nonstop about his vision of guests seated on cushioned seats at silk clothed tables with pastel pink bouquet centerpieces, a red rose adorning the vine covered walls every so often for an eye catching pop. The realization that truth lies under his mindless scribbles throws Soul for an existential defying loop. Sure, wedding planning hadn't bothered him before, but he never met with clients or worked by himself. Maka's constant presence served as the best reward, especially as her business grew. This is  _her_ dream,  _her_ baby. Being there to watch her glory unfold had been an honor, an inspiration.

And now…

Well, this isn't  _his_  ambition. Soul wouldn't take back all the time he dedicated helping build Maka up - he'd do it again, yes, proven by his willingness to extend his time off from work - but he's also not needed anymore. And that's okay. He's found his niche in sound engineering, even if that's halfway across the country, away from his friends, his family…

"Tsu wants a fountain too," Wes is saying, sprightly voice grating to Soul's ears. "So our guests can throw pennies in and make wishes. Write that down, Soul."

"Mm-hmm. Got it."

 _Right_ \- taking orders from taxing bride and groomzillas alike had been a major drawback of the job.

Then again, the source of Soul's annoyances with wedding planning could be  _Wes_ \- perfect, dazzling, wonderful  _Wes Evans_. Never mind that ten years separate the brothers. Growing up, Wes had outshined Soul by merely existing. He was there  _first_ , and while relatives, teachers, their parents' snooty social circle, and the musical community cooed as the Evans baby mastered the art of piano playing, Wes the virtuoso had already cemented himself into their good graces. While Soul's lack of self worth caused him to spurn the doting and attention he needed, Wes received it, thrived on it, and even when he attempted to deflect all of it back onto Soul, it was too late.

What makes it worse is Wes's selflessness. He  _tried_  to reach Soul and still continues to, relentlessly. Soul shouldn't hold a grudge against his older brother for other people not knowing how to comfort or cheer him on how  _Soul_  needs it, because he pushes Wes to the periphery continuously, but directing his anger toward one person is easy. One-sided sibling rivalry to compensate for a lonely childhood is painless.

Listening to Wes, though, isn't. Soul might just throw himself off the building. "Lots of roses, sculptures, heaven stuff, mhmm, got it. Anything else?"

Wes peers at him over the rim of his glass, contemplating, chugging yet again. Then his eyes expand three times their size. "Sorry! I didn't mean doves, I meant cherubs."

Soul's brain skips -  _whaaaaaat?_ \- but then his hand moves to the top of the page, crossing out the word  _birds_ and replacing it with  _babies_. "Can do."

"We were thinking too, we could probably hang string lights all around, to give the ball room a homey touch."

"I still have the lights from my wedding, we can use that," comes out of Soul's mouth automatically. The ache isn't instant. It seeps in, like water overtaking and sinking a ship. Slowly. Feelings are tricky and cruel like that. "They're in one of those boxes I kept in your garage. Somewhere."

"Waaait, no, my mistake. I meant we wanted gold chandeliers, not lights."

Soul doesn't look up from his sketch of a rose. Death knows he's been fiddling with them enough to know their specific details - a soft curve here like Maka's neck when they almost kissed for a second time, a sharp line there like Maka's mouth when she jerked away from him. "It's cool. I don't mind."

"We don't want lights."

"Yes you do." He's shading the stem now, coloring it inky black. in his mind's eye, it's Maka in her dress, ink bleeding down and staining the pristine white color. To a perfectionist like her, it signaled  _failure_ , more of a character flaw than an accident - no wonder she couldn't bear to meet him at the altar.  _Damn it_ , he should have been there for her. "You said so yourself at my wedding, that you liked the lights."

Out of the periphery of his vision, he sees Wes shrug. "Yeah, it was beautiful, but that's your thing with Maka."

"Not really. We don't claim copyrights to string lights."

"We want candles," Wes insists. If he hadn't already been pulling ideas out of his butt, Soul's guesses would have pointed to a blundered cover up. "Every table should have a few candles to set the mood."

"You can have string lights too, Wes, shit. Mom and Dad are going to pay for it anyway."

Wes refills his glass, emptying the pitcher. It's not even nine in the morning and the man has already downed too much sweet tea. "We'll hash out the specifics later. Let's talk about the transportation - Tsu and I decided we don't want the limo, that's too… boring. We want a horse drawn carriage."

"Like…" Soul squints at the paper. How the hell is he going to draw a horse? That's levels above his doodles. "A live horse?"

"That's usually how it goes, yeah," Wes laughs, standing and moving to the fridge. He emerges with another pitcher.

"But. The wedding and the reception and everything are at the same place. At the resort. So there's no need."

Wrong thing to say. Wes's face falls like a child whose ice cream cone plopped on top of an ant hill. "You're right!  _Ugggh_ , maybe we can just take a ride around town - yeah, we can take a ride around, spend some time alone as a married couple."

"Sure, I guess, if you want to waste time."

Wes shakes his head. "It's not a waste, it'll be fun."

"It's going to be hotter than Satan's armpit though…"

"It'll be okay," Wes says, and genuinely believes it too.

All Soul can do is hold his tongue to retort that the world doesn't turn out fine just because Wes said it would. Irritating doesn't quite label Wes's positivity streak to its full extent. Having an optimistic outlook is one thing, but Wes could probably cheer up a funeral home  _and_  bring the dead back to life with his jollyness. It grinds Soul's gears.

Thank goodness he's about to leave. The meeting is over. Soul's bed awaits, and so does merciful unconsciousness.

"Hey, so - how's Maka doing?"

Soul acts unfazed, touching up his sketches. "Busy, you know how she is, overachieving and putting too much on her plate."

"Yeah, I did notice she seems frazzled lately…" Wes collects their glasses but doesn't step to the sink. "How's it going between you two?"

"Normal."

Flashbacks to his wedding stun Soul - Wes shifting his weight on one foot, visibly piecing together words, and Soul dreading their conversation.

"Doesn't seem like it," Wes says, voice threaded with concern. "It's odd. One minute you're both relaxed and happy to see each other, and then it's like one of you remembers you're not supposed to be talking and the energy goes out of whack." He deliberates, probably granting Soul space to talk. "What happened? Soulmates don't act like that."

"Who writes those rules anyway? Even if we  _are_ soulmates, it doesn't mean we're going to be together. We aren't now."

"Soul…"

" _Shut up and go be happy with your fiance_ ," could fire out of him like a bullet, but he doesn't pull the trigger. The rational side of him remembers his promise to himself - be more open, honor his feelings - but right now, as Wes pries and pushes with that trademark smothering overprotectiveness Soul mistakes for bossiness, it makes sense to explode. "I don't need your pity."

"Watch your tone, Soul."

Suddenly Soul's vision is narrow, like he's staring out of slits, muscles and skin on his face stiff like paper mache. "What do you mean?"

" _That's_  what I mean. The snapping. The passive aggressiveness. Stop it."

He taps his pen on the notepad. "I don't know about you, but I'm chill."

Wes's brows knit together. "That's true. You've been extremely cold lately."

 _Ouch_. Soul owns up to his crappy little brother title, but that's downright unfair. "Sorry I'm not peachy and a delight to be around like you,  _Bro_. Sometimes I have bad days. I'm not perfect."

"And I'm not either, no one is, but I do try my best, and-"

"I try my best too."

"I know, what I was saying was-"

"Don't think I don't try my damnest, Wes. Things don't go how I plan sometimes."

Wes hesitates before trudging forward. "Are you sure that you even try? It feels like you've been rushing through our meeting and dismissing my ideas for the wedding." Met with Soul's dead stare, he tacks on,

"I've been giving you passes since this is probably reminding you of your wedding with Maka, but I feel like you haven't been supportive of me and Tsu-"

"Like hell I am, I stayed to help plan your wedding!"

"What I mean is, your negative attitude and sarcasm sound-"

"I'm trying really hard to listen but you're obnoxious sometimes. Just tell me what you want so I can leave."

Wes's jaw snaps shut like a rubber band. "And you're  _impatient_ , more than usual." The hardness recedes faster than the blink of an eye - he isn't one to hold a grudge. "Do you really hate spending time with me?"

Cap back on his pen and book shoved between his arm and rib, Soul holds on to his misplaced fury. "No, only sometimes, when you brag and show off."

Remorse doesn't bite him until he's storming out, but he still can't stop himself from closing the door on their relationship.

X

Soul starts to make plans to  _stay_.

A little ornery voice tells him there's no reason. Wes's fondness for him probably shrank after yesterday's fall out, Jackie's unremitting commentary about 'friends don't let friends get hurt' and 'I'm keeping you honest' and 'damnit Soul, no, I won't shut up' will most likely escalate into another argument, and to top it all off, Maka's abrupt absence cuts deep.

 _Sorry can't_ , she replies an hour later after he had texted her inviting her over for breakfast. The disinterest, however feigned it may be, summons the sand to his throat. Logic tells Soul she's likely still reeling from the last conversation they had, flustered by what she almost said, and needs space to clear her head. She's up to her ears in work with other clients, too. No rest for the weary.

But Soul's gut feeling knows the truth - she's keeping her distance, barely out of reach.

What goes around comes around, he guesses. Screening calls from Wes has resulted in receiving  _no_ calls.

Either way, the decision to move back is easy, especially with his relationships in gross disarray. Soul physically can't leave without unraveling his messes, and he never booked the flight back to LA after canceling it on New Year's Day anyway.

Change feels  _good_.

The first step is to find his own place, and even that task is daunting. Small towns equal a limited amount of living options. Company would have helped as he finalized last minute decisions, especially Maka's, but he takes this newfound solitude as the universe's sign that he must do this alone.

When Kim and Jackie stroll in minutes later, a light bulb goes off in his head. Kim  _works_  in real estate, maybe,  _maybe_  she could help - but as awful as it sounds, keeping Jackie out of his plans is safer. Trusting her is hard when she's adamant she's  _right_  all the time, particularly with what he should or shouldn't do.

Ugh.

"I'm making protein pancakes," he announces, nudging the fridge door closed with his foot, egg carton in one hand and milk jug in the other. "How many do you want?"

"I want exactly zero," Jackie yawns, stretching. "They're gross nasty. Make waffles instead."

"Re-phrase that, you heathen."

"I'll cut up strawberries for toppings," Kim says, washing her hands after gathering the fruits. "This is so sweet of you, Soul."

Jackie, leaning against the kitchen counter, watches Kim cut the strawberries into thirds. "Mmm, I don't think it's us who have to be nice to though."

Rummaging through the cupboard for a bowl and the vanilla flavored protein powder he remembered seeing, Soul pauses to glare at Jackie.

She's unfazed. "You're never up this early. Any special plans? Like, say… talking it out with  _someone_  in particular?"

"I'm here to support reconciliation too," Kim pipes in. "Wes would love to hear from you."

A wall goes up around Soul, who tries to dismantle it brick by brick - and use them against the smirk his best friend who's been rushing him into confessing is wearing. "Yeah, but that's not who Jackie means."

Kim does a double take, glancing suspiciously at Jackie. "Who? I thought she's been lecturing you about Wes this whole time."

"Nope." The glee of getting Jackie in trouble warms his heart. " _Maka_. Apparently, Jackie has a bone to pick with her."

"She and Maka are fighting?" Kim turns to her wife, the disapproval apparent in her stern gaze. "You said you weren't going to get involved."

"We're not fighting, nothing even happened." Jackie's eyelid twitches. " _Okay_ , I tried but my grandmotherly instincts to butt in and take care of my little Soul dumpling took over -  _augh_ , but Kiiiiim, it's true, I didn't mean to be mean."

Receptive to Kim's unchanging expression and overt disbelief, Jackie ceases, mumbling an apology in Soul's direction and skulking away to 'exfoliate my sins and cleanse my nosiness away.'

"She meant well," Soul admits, placing the frying pan on the stovetop. "It's just… weird right now. With Maka. I'm trying to sort it out."

Kim sighs, sympathetic. "I… don't even know what to say. We're sorry this is happening. Me, Liz, Patti, all of us - we said we wouldn't pick sides or meddle, because we love both of you, but we're worried.  _I'm_ worried. What's going  _on_?"

Soul could hug her for her friendship, but he's still so closed off, resistant to accept love, so he thanks her instead. Opening up is easier said than done.

"We're working on being okay. Me and Maka have too much history to lose each other." He  _hopes_ so at least. "I think the stress of planning Tsu and Wes's wedding has gotten to her… Maybe when that's over, we'll be able to talk things out..."

"And how are  _you_ doing?"

He's  _homesick_  in every way. Going mad. Envy and regret will ravage him if he doesn't tread with more caution. And his streak of being honest hasn't worked out like he imagined - look at how he treated Wes. So Soul settles for a safe in-between: "I'm kind of lost, but it's fine. I'm actually hoping you can help me look for an apartment?"

Nothing makes him feel better than Kim lighting up like someone turned on the sun and not having to explain his actions. "What do you have in mind?"

"Something affordable, a one bedroom? Nothing too fancy."

"I have a few places in mind! Make those pancakes to go, I'll get ready. Time is money."

Keeping secrets from Jackie feels akin to treason, but Soul consoles himself by telling himself that he'll enlighten her later. Her sixth sense for deception must tingle as he and Kim head for the front door half an hour later. Hair wrapped in a towel, Jackie pokes her head out of the bathroom, thick white streaks of lotion semi-spread across her cheeks and forehead.

"Where are you two going?"

"Out," Kim calls over her shoulder, winking at Soul. "Business called my name. Stay out of trouble, have a nice day!"

Securing a third floor apartment in the heart of the city is a cinch thanks to Kim. The third place she shows him overlooks a row of shops: Maka's favorite bookstore, small restaurants, a bakery, and a handmade craft boutique. If Soul cants his head and peeks between the neighboring buildings, he can catch a glimpse of the mountain ranges in the distant horizon.

"I'll take it," he says, wrinkling his nose at a black cat that jumps into the window box from seemingly nowhere. He shoos it away through the glass, but it only sits and meows in response as if saying it had marked its territory first. Hell, Soul can't blame it. After all, he lost and found his home too. He belongs here, among the cacti, scorching pavement, dry suffocating heat, and weird skull logos the residents proudly plaster on their cars and houses and businesses.

Death City is  _home_.

X

"I hate them," Soul monotones before burying his face in the rose bouquet anyway, inhaling their scent, then reeling away with his nostrils flared. He balls up the card that came attached to it -  _Don't be mad at me anymore_ \- and slam dunks it into the nearest trash bin. Another scant glance at the velvety petals to admire their beauty and they follow suit, too.

Jackie shrieks in his ear, wrestling him out of the way. "How could you? I meant that from the bottom of my heart.  _Really_!"

He rolls his eyes. "That's not an apology."

"It's the thought that counts," she counters, crossing her arms, eyes narrowing dangerously. Ever since Kim put her foot down a week ago, Soul has noted that Jackie has erred on the side of caution around him, limiting her tormenting and backhanded compliments to a healthy minimum instead of demolishing him with insults. Although the tally of serious, real arguments between them stands at two  _maybe_ , their current situation could potentially boil down to another blow out if tempers continue to rise.

So, it's  _good_  she has sort of corrected her behavior, but he's itching to fight it out with anyone. Too bad they're loitering in the hallway right outside of her radio studio, her coworkers and higher-ups probably within earshot, other stations in the building recording live. A scandal wouldn't warm him up to anyone, especially if he's aiming to fill one of their open sound engineer positions.

Still, he can't help but scowl.

Flipping her hair behind her shoulder, Jackie digs the flowers out of the garbage, flicking a piece of banana peel off a bud. "You could at least pretend not to be mad at me anymore. We're roommates now, we have to get along."

"When you pretend to be nice to Maka you can be my friend again." He tugs at his tie - the damn things are a choking hazard. "And I'm moving out soon anyway, so you don't have to worry."

Two things happen: Jackie's face contorts like a firecrackers exploded in her mouth, and then she gasps when his last comment registers, the shock unmistakable. "What?"

"I can't live in your guest bedroom forever. We'll end up killing each other."

"No, no - you're  _staying_ in Death City?"

"Well  _duh,_  Jackie. That's why I'm interviewing for the job. Thanks for the hook-up, by the way."

She's shaking her head. "I thought it was just to hold you over, I know you don't like to rely on your parents for money - but  _wow_ , you're back forever?"

"I'm gonna die here," he reassures. "I already told the LA job I'm not coming back weeks ago, and I found a place here, so…"

"Good, because I missed you. Now we can go back to eating wings every Wednesday, and watching creepy videos online until you chicken out, and find new bands, and…" Suspicion dawns on her. " _When_ were you planning on telling me? I can't believe - does this have something to do with Maka?"

Caught red-handed. Kind of. He's a bug under a microscope, the pessimistic scrutiny messing with his head, almost convincing himself that his intentions stem from starved unrequited love and not his decision to refill the hole in his life that isolating himself in LA created.  _Family_. It does include Maka, but she's not the sole reason. In fact, being near her  _aches_ somewhere he can't reach, and -

"I want to stay home," he admits, equal parts mystified and embarrassed that his shoulders slump tiredly, a melancholy threaded in his voice. He holds on to it - maybe the healing process speeds up if he simmers in his emotions, but it slips away, disappearing quickly.

"We want you home too..." She cradles the bouquet like a baby, regret piercing through him - maybe he shouldn't be an asshole. The rage returns to her, too, brows knitting. "And, to set the record straight, because I'm most certainly  _not,_ I wasn't trying to pick a fight with Maka. Got it? I suffer from resting bitch face. I can't control if I give people the stink eye. That's just how I am."

He shrugs, peeking at the too-expensive wrist watch his mother gifted him for his birthday. "Don't give Maka a hard time because of  _me_. That's all I'm asking."

"Maka and I were never close before she left you at the altar, anyway. We just…" She motions in the air unintelligibly. "Don't click. And that's fine, no bad blood there, we can't all be super best friends. We were fine."

He's going to be  _late_ for the interview. And upset. "Sure."

If Jackie cares about his timely arrival to meet the human resources representative, she betrays no concern, holding her ground. "My problem is that she never told you  _why_  she didn't show up. You waited and waited, and you looked so  _sad_ , Soul, crushed. I know you won't ever tell me, but I know the wedding was real to you." She attempts to touch his shoulder and he recoils, but she goes on, determined, "And she wasn't there to see you hurting like we did, she probably has no idea how you feel because you're not being honest with her! It's killing me, seeing you like this."

"Then don't look," Soul says, buttoning his blazer. Nervous habit. He's going to be  _late_ -

"She owes you nothing of course, but you need to talk to her and get some kind of closure. And since I'm being honest, I'm kind of mad she hasn't tried to patch things up either-"

"She  _did_ , okay?" His blood boils with hatred that Jackie understands him better than the back of her own hand. "She did tell me why. So shut up."

"Oh." She shifts uncomfortably, gaze falling to her shoes. "You never told me…"

Yeah, he's been  _that_ closed off.

"Just let me deal with my problems by myself, Jackie. You don't have to fight my battles." He rubs his face, the anger dissipating into appreciation and reverence for the same girl who saved a lollipop for him in preschool when he missed the class Halloween party. "Thanks for looking out for me though. I can count on you for anything, can't I?"

"Yep! I know you'd do the same for me." She wiggles the bouquet in front of him, a simpering look on her face. "Accept these at least? We can agree to disagree for now."

"Sure, I guess - but save them until after the interview."

"Good thinking. They'll double as a congratulations gift." Pleased with herself, she wishes him good luck, smoothing down his cowlick. "You could probably learn a thing or two from this. Y'know, like sending something to your poor brother for being an absolute dickwad to him."

Soul sours, but it's half-hearted. The rage slipped away, as it always does. "He can get  _bent…_  I guess."

X

"Door's open!"

Soul pokes his head into the entry hallway just as Tsubaki strolls toward him. "Is Wes here?"

Apparently, an impromptu run for ice cream lured Wes out minutes before Soul arrived. Relieved because he can't face his brother, he stuffs his arm through the crack, holding out the semi-wilted bouquet. "I came by to give him these. Tell him I'm sorry and that he's not a nuisance or whatever."

Tsubaki smiles gently, handling the flowers like they're sacred. "Will do. Would you like to stay and wait for him? He should be-"

"Uhm, it might be too soon for me." He rubs the back of his neck like he can scrub away the embarrassment of what he's about to request. The memory of fielding a call to Tsubaki and placing a recurring anniversary gift to Maka pops into his head. Bashfulness hadn't curbed him then, so why is it hindering him now? "Is this a bad time to ask for a favor?"

"We're family. It's always a  _good_  time to ask for my help."

"I need to get something from the garage… and."  _God_ , he's nervous - not only is he going to show Maka his newly acquired floral arrangement skills, but he's going to put those lights in Wes's garage to good use,  _finally_. "Can I borrow your shop for the night?"

X

Soul poises his hands on Maka's shoulders and asks her, like he's entrusting her with a secret, to close her eyes. Trust is Maka allowing him to guide her down the sidewalk blindly, softening under his touch with each deliberate step. She's not quite melting, but as Soul remembers the etherealness of her neck, he's the definition of nostalgic - wistful, with a hint of sweet melancholy that breaks his heart and leaves him wanting more.

Letting go is an art; he's not ready, not when he's unsure if they'll ever be this close again. Too soon they stand in front of Tsubaki's flower shop, the string lights he draped around the hanging flowers and potted plants glowing.

"Okay… you can open your eyes now."

A beat later she gasps, and he can practically feel it echo through her body. "It's - it's so  _beautiful_! You went to all this trouble for me?"

"For us."

It hits him, as he grins watching her awe over the dreaminess of the scene, that he's missed her smile like he missed home.

"Do you like it?"

"I  _love_ it, it's so pretty, like we have our own little world in there, and the flowers…" The excitement burning inside her extinguishes in a snap. Vibrant smiles give way to a pout, her chin scrunching. "... You  _lied_  to me. You said we were working on more things for Tsu and Wes's wedding."

"We are, we are. I just thought..." He unlocks the door and holds it open in a soundless gesture for her to walk inside first. "I could show you the floral arrangements I've been experimenting with, and we could relax for a while. I bought a thermos with hot chocolate, and - Maka? What's wrong?"

"This looks…" Her brows knit, and if it weren't hell to touch her, he'd iron out the rumpled skin between them with his thumb. "This looks like a starry night."

"Those are the best nights," he says, wondering if she can hear him - he can barely hear himself. "Especially with you."

"Really?" Her eyes go glassy for the briefest of moments. "That's so sweet."

God, he's nervous, heart cartwheeling when she heads inside, when she perches on the stool, when she turns just the right way and half her face falls in a shadow, the other half painted gold by the lighting. She's divine. She watches his hands weave stems together, fascinated, their stillness more intimate than physical contact because they're familiarizing themselves with each other's silence.

No talking. That'll come later, when he's ready to open like a wound.

Fingerpads raw from tinkering with stems, he holds out the flower crown, proud. "Can I put it on you?"

She's speechless, nodding, her eyes fluttering shut, curious hands exploring the petals. "How's it look?"

He waits and he burns, and she doesn't even know it. Can't see it. "Angelic."


	8. caught in between

"I'll tell you what I think," Liz says, not bothering to look up, focusing her keen scrutiny on filing her nails. "You're afraid."

Playing innocent is Maka's go-to - this conversion is inevitable, but at the end of the day, heart-to-hearts with Liz always leave Maka feeling less heavy. The process wounds, though, and it runs deep. "Why do you think that?"

"Well, because you left Soul at the altar."

_No one's_  confronted her with that truth, and though she's spent over a year steeling herself for this moment, it isn't enough. She's done crying over spilled ink and the missed opportunity it cost, but her insides twist like they're being yanked out, her defenses flaring up. Turning them off requires patience with herself, some tender loving care in the form of self compassion, both difficult skills to master, but imagining her role reversed with Liz helps. She'd be kind to Liz in this situation, so Maka grants herself some of that exact kindness, too.

"Even making the pact says a lot about both of you individually and together, but I don't want to talk about Soul in case I'm reading him wrong, which I doubt. But." Liz pauses, rubbing her thumb pad along her index finger nail to test for jagged edges. "I'll tell you what  _I've_ seen in you, as an outsider, as a friend. If you want."

While the endless ribbing and snoopy questions once agitated Maka, this offer is  _different_. Now, Liz isn't chanting  _Soul and Maka, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g_  or winking suggestively at Maka, telling her to smear on chapstick in the endeavor to score a couple of points in the kissable department. No, she's serious, and the dramatic change of character  _frightens._

The thing is, Liz Thompson doesn't lie. Ugly or not, she's loyal to the truth and therefore rarely offers it unless sought out for advice, and otherwise holds her tongue or laughs the problem away. She's a good judge of character too, thanks to fending for herself and her younger sister from a young age, and usually her analyses are spot-on,  _freakishly_  spot-on.

Maka's head pounds with the cognizance that she can't,  _shouldn't_ , withdraw from this chance to open up. Deep down, she's known all along accepting a brunch date with Liz would lead to a difficult conversation. The right time to talk would have never arrived anyway.

Might as well do it now.

"Tell me." Maka shifts, sitting crisscross applesauce on the Thompson's area rug, abandoning the nail polish bottles she picked out of Liz's collection. "Nothing but the truth."

There's no mercy. "I think you're afraid of love."

Maka sucks in a breath.

"It's funny because we grow up being told that love is easy and beautiful and someday we'll all find someone who makes us puke rainbows or whatever. But no, love is hard. Love is natural but it's not easy."

"It's confusing," Maka concedes.

"Yeah, exactly, seeeee? People find each other and lose each other all the time because they're constantly growing into different versions of themselves, and growing  _together_  sounds impossible. A miracle, maybe even proof that God exists. But that's not the only thing that scares you, Maka."

Liz's courteous detachment is a gift. She seems to not notice Maka wedge her hands underneath her legs because the pressure feels cathartic. Doesn't see her chin quivering, or the tears pooling in her eyes, her body taut under the tension of keeping herself together. No one witnesses Maka's sorrow, and the loneliness in that fact brings her strength.

"And it makes sense," Liz goes on, blowing at her nails, squinting at their shape. "You didn't have the best example. Your parents weren't happy together, your dad cheated too much and drank and drove  _you_  away. And it's even harder because no matter what he did, you still love him, because that's how it is."

_Oh_ , Maka thinks, blinking as her vision blurs, lightning bolt hurt thundering through her bones. Is her suffering that obvious, that open? She's been on display and hasn't known.

"But he hurt your mom, and your mom's pain is your pain, too. So it's natural to be resentful, even if it's confusing. But it doesn't stop there." Liz reaches for the clippers. "Because stuff like that follows you, you know?"

Lord, does Maka know. She's not one to hold grudges but, in her papa's case, she's clung on to the bitterness with a death grip. Forgiveness has looked like unfurling her fingers bit by bit, begrudgingly, if only for her own sanity. The realization that she's been exposed this whole time, that others have watched her through the harrowing process, is both comforting and a violation of her privacy.

"It's not to say that you're always going to have problems, because everyone on this earth was dealt some bad cards so…" Liz shrugs lazily, attention still trained on her fingers. "Gotta learn to cope, y'know?"

But Maka  _hurts_ , hurts so bad like being burned from the inside out. There's no more space for her feelings. Her rib cage can't expand to contain all the ups and down; something has to  _go_ , and it has to be Soul, as beautiful and wholesome and rewarding it is to love him.

Maybe Liz is right. Maka's fear of being torn open keeps people at bay. Bleeding out, being vulnerable, being intimate, emotionally  _naked_  - that's impossible with so many walls up, so many doubts. Relationships are new to her, and she  _can't_ follow in her papa's footsteps and mess up. Not that she'd stray, but - but, but, she's too much like him in other ways, with all his strengths and his faults -

"So," Maka sums up once her voice comes back. "You're saying I have daddy issues."

Liz's cringes. "That's not fair to you. The term is so condescending - it's normal to have issues that come from broken or unhealthy relationships, or bad examples. We're social creatures. We see and we learn."

"It's just, well… how can I  _stop_  being this way? Soul is important to me, and I'm sick of putting my feelings aside." Wringing her wrists threads Maka to reality - she's never admitted to liking him in  _that_  way. More like a soulmate than a best friend.

For a second she thinks Liz might bask in her triumph ("I  _KNEW IT_ ") but instead the beautician sticks to her professional demeanor. "Why should you stop?"

Because his love for her is nothing but platonic, but another sharp burst of sorrow won't let Maka speak.

"Communication is the key. And I mean clear communication, leave nothing unsaid or unexplained, and don't assume." Liz falls silent, squinting at her cuticles, digging at them. "Listen to your feelings, Maka. It's okay to feel."

"I don't want to disrespect him or make him feel… awkward. Or obligated."

"You're best friends. He'd let you know if something didn't sit right with him, and you would talk it out."

Maka worries her lip, temples throbbing with the first signs of a headache. Holding her breath works wonders for stopping tears, but seeing stars and losing consciousness shouldn't be her escape from feeling. "But how do I do that, Liz?"

"I wish I could tell you. But I can tell you one thing. You need to  _say_  something, Maka."

More grief - when will it end? "I always tell Soul I love him. And that's not a lie… but he never says it back."

"Do you always tell your dad you love him when he says it first?" Liz switches tools, drags the file across her nail  _hard_. "Nah, because it's just… complicated. You have a complicated history. But it doesn't mean you don't love him, right?"

"That's my  _papa_ , though, he's not Soul." Suddenly the lines transversing Maka's palms enthrall her, and she wishes a fortune teller could glance at them and tell her how her actions, or lack thereof, will change her future for better or for worse.

"I want to say something like, actions speak louder than words, but I also want to point out that, a lack of a no doesn't mean  _yes_ , because consent and all that…" A sigh, a weary one. "I'm not explaining well, am I? Let me just say it straight out - if you love someone, let them know."

_But I did_ , Maka cries inside, clenching her jaw. Hot tears brim her eyes, and she closes them to search for peace.

"And that's the other thing I think you're afraid of, Maka. Trusting. Relationships in general. Telling him exactly how you feel because it means being close. It's  _work_ , being vulnerable and stuff, and… well, it's not easy, especially because there's no guarantee everything'll work out how you want it."

"I wish it would," Maka whispers, clenching her fists with the last bit of strength she possesses. "I just want things to be-"

"Perfect?"

"Mhmm…"

The patience in Liz's voice reminds Maka of her mama. "It won't ever be, but you're allowed to be just  _good_ , just  _okay_ , nothing more and nothing less."

"But, but…"

Silence blankets the apartment, the sound of tires tracking on the street below the only interruption. When it becomes clear Maka won't finish her sentence, Liz continues: "And that's why you left Soul at the altar. You have real feelings, and living a false life, a platonic marriage… you couldn't do it. It wasn't right. It wasn't perfect."

Maka nods quietly, wiping at her eyes, her chest feeling like it's collapsing in - she's so obvious to everyone except herself. She's a stranger to herself, one she promises to meet and befriend.

"And, like with your parents' relationship, you know marriage changes everything. Maybe you started to think that it would change your friendship with Soul, too. You didn't want to lose him.."

"What if you're right? What if Iost him no matter what I did?"

"I don't know," Liz says, filing, filing. "You tell me."

Maka gulps.  _Her_  turn to talk now, to fill silences, to not only dissect her thoughts but also bounce ideas off someone who isn't here to judge or influence and will probably pretend this conversation didn't happen unless Maka brings it up again.

She's safe.

"It - it wasn't  _perfect_ , Liz, and I can't get over it. I spilled ink on my wedding dress. My calligraphy ink, the same bottle I used for our wedding invitations."

"Oh," Liz breathes, the finality of the mistake visibly hitting her like a punch.

"It just, I don't know, fell, and I felt like a klutz. I panicked. And the worst part is..." No, she can't feel her tongue anymore. It's numb, her mouth not hers, giving too much away. "I realized later that I should have still gone, and when I told Soul he was  _shocked_ , I think I hurt his feelings. I told him…"

"That you wanted it to be real," Liz finishes for her, now completely still. No filing, no studying her hands. Stunned. "You're hard on yourself and you wish you weren't, but you are, and you're beating yourself up, trying to run away."

"Yes! That's me, Maka Albarn, wedding planner who didn't show up to her own wedding. She was afraid."

"She's allowed to be human," Liz consoles, covering her face too, like the empathy is too great to handle. She emerges with red splotches on her face, exhaustion taking its toll, opening a cool blue bottle of nail polish. "Be afraid Maka, own it. It's yours. So are your other feelings."

"A lot of them are about Soul…" She picks up the nail polish bottles again, their cool, glassy edges satisfying, distracting. "It's funny, because before I lived with Soul, I always thought that if I got married, my husband would like, live across the street from me and we'd have designated visiting hours to hang out. I wanted my own space."

Liz veils a huge appreciative smirk behind her hand, and it remains as she paints her nails. "Would this metaphorical guy have a key to your house?"

"Hell no." Maka mulls it over. "It wouldn't be okay for him to drop by unannounced either. I like my me time."

"Space."

"Yeah, space, lots of it. But it's weird, because Soul can enter that space whenever he wants. I trust him. He's different, and I think it's because we started off as just friends - or at least I did, and one day I just looked at him and thought, yeah, I  _do_  love him."

"Epiphanies are funny like that."

"Mhm and… I'm worried, because I also want affection." Her whole face is hotter than the surface of the sun. "But getting close is… hard. I don't know."

"And it's normal not to know," Liz consoles, abandoning her nail polish temporarily in her excitement. "I know exactly what you mean - remember when I dated that Anya girl? And then that dork Kid? I wanted different things from them. I wasn't the same in both relationships. And I still have no clue what I'm looking for. It's a process."

" _Blegh,_ but, with Soul, it's different. I'm home. And getting married - I don't, don't know, you said it better than I can. Everything could have changed for the worst."

Liz's meticulously groomed brows crease together, worry lines deeping. "How did you know that?"

"I…" Maka wrinkles her nose, concentrating, but nothing comes to mind except Soul's gentleness. Patience.

"What if it changed for the better? I mean, you two are best friends, and you care about each other so much… we don't tease you for the hell of it. What if he feels the same way? Did you ever think about that?"

Yes,  _god_  yes, especially at night when she wants his company the most because all her feelings swell and she wishes they could share a bed. It would be like New Year's Eve all over again, intimacy without hesitancy.

"I don't want to make any mistakes, Liz. I don't want to rush into something….  _Again."_

"But, think about how you imagined married life before and after you realized how you feel about Soul. Is he like any other person, someone you couldn't let in?"

"No…" To deny that she wants to live with Soul again and maybe  _kiss_  and pass the days together would be a damning lie. "Now I  _know_ we could live in the same space and be comfortable, since we've done it before. Maybe we could even share a room  _and_  a bed. I would  _want_  to. Maybe he wouldn't have a key to the room, I'd have to let him in every time-"

Liz snorts, almost dropping her nail polish applicator. "It's okay to heal at your own pace."

"But, maybe…" Maka gulps, something like sand stuck in her throat. "Maybe I'd leave the door open for him sometimes."

And a time would come where she wouldn't have to close it at all.

Her vision tunnels then, and she's sobbing before she registers what's wracking her body, doubled over, grateful that Liz continues to care for her nails, a whole galaxy away but ready to cross it in the blink if an eye if she's called.

Nights ago, when Soul picked Maka up to hang out with Wes, Soul said the same thing, hadn't he?

" _The door's always open for you."_

_Oh_.

X

Black ink should be illegal.

No matter how hard she stares, Maka can't fathom dipping the fountain pen into the jar and then trailing it across the linen cardstock that cost more than a month's rent. It's too harsh, too dark, too much of a contrast to the floral arrangement she painted on the corner as a tester. The color itself not only prompts Maka's sweat glands to over stimulate, taking her back to  _that_  day, but it clashes with Tsubaki and Wes's wedding aesthetic.

_Ugh_. Black only looks good on the night, on boots, on leather bound books, on suits that Soul wears.

She screws the top back on the bottle,  _tight_. No such thing as too careful. Anyway, she has a thousand and fifty nine invitations to hand make. Risking one to a blunder isn't something she can afford right now. If she dedicates a whole weekend to nothing but lettering and addressing envelopes, she can send them out on Monday. It's a formality, a keepsake, because everyone in town knows thanks to social media, but still, timeliness is her middle name.

So is maid of honor. Ice surges through her blood. How could she have forgotten?

Crap.

"Maka, are you home?"

It's her papa, breaking and entering yet again. Unannounced, unwanted. No wonder she skirmishes with boundary issues. A perfunctory glance at her phone reveals she neglected to  _un_ silence it after a meeting with a client earlier that evening, her papa's twelve text messages unread and twenty missed calls filling her voicemail. She puffs her cheeks out, tapping the clean pen tip on her desk with impatient habit at hearing his voice, but that fades instantly once she puts herself in his shoes.

If he disappeared and didn't reach out to her, she'd do the same. She'd stop at nothing until she confirmed his safety.

Maybe she can learn to find balance, like Liz suggested.

"I'm here Papa, I'm okay," she calls, and as she hears footsteps nearing, an idea blooms - maybe he'd like to accompany her to buy gold ink.

Or, he could chauffeur and wait in the car. That too.

X

"Oh."

Facetiming stands as Maka's first mistake that morning. Not only is her face puffy from sleep, there's gunk nestled in the corner of her eye, and she's only coherent in her head. But the message came across clear to Tsubaki, whose face shatters like fine china plummeting to the floor.

Her recovery time is quicker than Maka. "That's fine, don't worry." And by the way her smile reaches her eyes, she means it genuinely.

"I'm  _so_ sorry," Maka says, fighting off the urge to rip her hair out to counteract the pain of disappointing one of her best friends. "I'm - I took on more than I could chew. I can't plan your bachelorette party, but I'll make it up to you-"

"No, you're making my dream wedding come true, that's nothing to be sorry about! Wes and I can plan a joint party thing, so it's not a problem, really… Yeah, we can all go dancing. A Jack and Jill type thing - that's it!"

Maka screams inwardly. Tsubaki latched onto that idea so  _fast -_

"You can still be my maid of honor, right?"

"Ah, uhm…" Maka rolls over and sits up at the edge of her bed, hair whisked every which way. "You'd still want me to?"

"Of course! I'm glad I made friends with Liz and Patti and every one else, but you're my  _best_  friend, and I never thanked you for introducing me to Wes."

Selfishness is thinking about Soul as the best man, slow dancing with him in front of literally a thousand plus pairs of eyes, and the wedding falling apart if she's not there overseeing every detail during every second. Participating  _in_  the wedding and managing it. She can't be in two places at the same time -

"Ahh… I'll give you time to think about it. For now, let's just plan on-" Tsubaki cuts herself off, laughing at something off screen, radiant, worry free. "That's a great idea, Wes dear! Maka, Wes and I are going taste testing. Please join us? Not just as our planner, but as a friend. You're family to us."

"You're my family too," Maka says, resting her hand over her chest, swept away by the couple's sweetness.

"We're dragging Soul along too," Wes's voice chips in from the background.

Mistake two that morning: accepting.

Because, even though she had vowed to distance herself from the Evanses and come out of this in one piece, the pleasant danger of seeing Soul again after thinking about him too much lately draws her in like an undercurrent.

X

Maka catches a whiff of his body wash and the longing shoots straight down to her toes.

It's not fair. He still buys the same products, wears the same hoodie underneath the same leather jacket, and still seems unaware of his effect on her. Probably. Sitting in the backseat of Wes's car together as Tsubaki drives them from bakery to bakery is more tense than Maka expected. Then again, she's the one who's been neglecting making eye contact with him for the past month, even after he decorated the flower shop for her with  _their_  string lights. She's not exactly sure what that meant, but cutting their work related meetings short, rejecting his invitations to dine out or watch a movie is her answer.

Pushing him away.

Unless - unless it's the wrong thing to do? The setup at the flower shop  _was_  romantic, but he had rejected her with silence, hadn't he?

Either way, she owes him, and herself, so many apologies.

"Next stop, the mall," Tsubaki announces, Wes rolling down the window and sticking his arm out, grasping at the air.

Soul, seated directly behind his brother, glares at him, shivering. "We've hit up every bakery in town. Is the one at the DCM going to blow all of them out of the water?"

Yes, yes it does. Living in a small town planted right in the heart of the desert has its perks. Sure, seasons and regular rainfall and skyscrapers and congruous  _sidewalks_  remain myths to Death City's residents, but the lack of resources and isolation forced them to construct a mega mall, where ice skating rinks meet high fashion and the town's only gym.

"I'll be a turtle's uncle," Soul mutters once they're in Outta the Oven, Wes and Tsubaki heading to bombard the owner with questions. "This place is actually nice."

"Hmm. It's new, opened last month," Maka says, reading a pamphlet she plucked off the stand at the entrance. "Custom ordered cakes, cupcakes, and other baked goods. Huh… and they deliver."

She looks up when he doesn't answer, expecting to see him wandering off but elated at catching him staring. "Guess we can take a look around?"

Soul trails after her, hands in his pockets, pointing out a cacti-themed birthday cake he wants to use as inspiration for the floral arrangements, though his snark lacks its usual imprudence. Things left unsaid hang between them,

Maka pinches her nose. "It's raw  _fish_ , ugh! I can't stand to look at it - please tell me Wes wouldn't."

"Don't give him ideas." Soul steers her to the next display, pointing at a three layer cake decorated in frosty rose petals. "That fits the theme really well. Let's pray he has some sense and orders that one."

"I want a taste," she says, Soul snickering at her high-pitched voice because she's yet to unclench her nostrils until the sample is in her clutches and they're on the other side of the bakery. "Yum, tastes like… wedding cake."

"I'm shook," Soul deadpans, staring openly at her.

"The frosting is just the right amount of fluffy and sweet. I could eat it for dessert every day." She holds the paper plate out to him. "Give it a try."

All he does is blink. "You have a little something…" He reaches out for her, hand steady. "Right…" He's hovering over nose, and her heart races, races,  _races_. "There."

She's tingling where he touched her. "Oh!" Blushing,  _burning_. "Thanks."

"Any time, Fat Ankles," he drawls, wiping his finger on a napkin and tossing it into the waste bin.

"How dare you, it's not my fault my ankles aren't dainty. It's because my calves are strong from all the working out I do!"

At the counter to their left, Wes lets out a whoop, Tsubaki cheers, and the chef hat wearing manager bursts into a wide grin, eyeballs practically shaped into money signs.

"Let's ditch," Soul whispers right by her ear, her skin tingling. He guides her gently out of the bakery by the shoulders until they merge with the crowd of shoppers. "Good, this is better. Wes… is annoying, and spoiled. A spoiled brat. Can you believe he hasn't asked for a bouncy house yet?"

Though she attempts to stifle a smile, the corners of her lips twitch. "Soul," she warns.

"But  _Maka_ , I'm being for real, he's an urchin."

She squints at him, hoping her ability to extract the truth from him hasn't degenerated. "Are you two still fighting?"

Soul juts his chin out, embittered, posture slumping the way it does when he's resistant to acknowledge his mistakes because it would mean talking about his problems. "No, we're just kinda not talking very much."

"Oh,  _Soul_ , that's horrible! He's your brother."

"Man, I thought I would be a nice break, but he's just as irritating when he's pouting and being butthurt. I even gave him a bouquet flowers but it didn't do the trick."

"Flowers," she echoes, nerves on fire, zoning out.  _I still love you_  flashes in her mind's eye. "You sent him flowers…"

"Yeah, but I  _was_  kind of a jerk to him, so I don't blame him for being still mad or whatever… Anyway, wanna walk around? There's a store I wanted to check out."

A smoothie stand and grabbing free samples from the food court entertain them for the next hour. It's almost  _normal_. Being with Soul, not self conscious about her mistakes, or reading too much into his goofy grins, or the electricity buzzing around them when their hands accidentally graze.

When it happens in front of a furniture store, Soul breaks the cycle, naturally holding her hand instead of flinching away, leading her inside like they're a couple. Neither pay attention to the slip up until they catch their reflection in a mirror. Alarmed, they recoil, each letting go simultaneously.

Maka plays with her scarf, the jitters accelerating her heart rate. "Is this the store you were looking for?"

"Yeah… Swear this mall gets weirder by the day," he mutters, eyeing a monstrously huge death masked cattle skull mounted on the wall. Then he's spinning around in circles, surveying the display furniture with removed, objective criticism, like he'll know what he wants when he spots it -

He whistles under his breath, honing in on the prize. Making a beeline for the back of the store, Maka scrambles to keep up, bumping into his back when he halts abruptly. Instinct almost dictates that she wrap her arms around him, but she squeaks out a " _sorry!"_  and stands at his side, following his gaze.

"This is it," he announces.

"It's… a black bedroom set." Surprisingly, it's another thing black looks good on, in Maka's opinion. Chest drawers, the bedframe, the night stand, the headboard, the bookshelf. Elegant, modern, but not gaudy.

"Should I go for a different color? Maybe something silver..."

Maka looks down at herself, buttoning and unbuttoning her coat, rubbing her hands together. She's still here. Then why does it feel like  _she's_  missing something, like she's caught in between reality and a twilight zone?

"Nahh, I'll just get the black one." He sweeps the immediate vicinity, flagging down a red smock clad employee and pointing to the bedroom setup. "Can I get that set delivered?"

Maka's jaw practically brushes the floor. "The shipping would be astronomical!"

Soul turns and looks at her with such intensity it burns. A hint of pleased relief flickers in his eyes, and it sends the butterflies in her stomach fluttering. She can't help but feel dumb, even with the growing sense of a bombshell dropping soon. "Well, wouldn't it?" she asks.

"Not really."

"From here to LA?"

"Oh, that's right, I haven't told you..." "I'm moving back. I'm already here, actually. I was even adopted by a cat." He shrugs, like he didn't just reveal life changing information.

None of it clicks with Maka, who feels like the world stopped spinning. She grabs Soul's arm after he's done placing his order, the worry marring her face affecting him, too. "What about… what about your job? And your apartment and stuff in LA?"

"I quit, and I don't know or care. I told the landlord to donate it to a shelter. Wanna see my cat?"

Soul unlocks his phone - code 6829, their apartment number,  _her_  apartment number - to reveal a wallpaper of a yellow-eyed, graceful thing curled up on a windowsill, ears perked, basking in the attention.

"Her name's Blair. She's kinda mischievous and annoying. Broke into my apartment the first night I was there and then ran into the window when I was trying to chase her out. I felt bad, and now I'm throwing money at pet stores. Go figure."

"She's so  _CUTE_ ," Maka approves, breathing in deeply, thankful for the excuse to be this close to him. His words finally sink in, unfuzzing - he's  _home._  "I love her little nose, and her fur coat is perfection. She looks really healthy, too."

"I got her checked out at the vet, yeah, she's fine…" He hikes up his sleeve, claw marks etched across the back of his hand and along his forearm. "Just stubborn and won't let anyone chop off her demon nails. And she's clingy."

"She likes you," Maka teases, stupidly jealous of a  _cat_. "And I bet you like her more than you let on. She's  _too_  cute!"

"Eh, I like the company," is all he says, glancing at the picture again before pocketing his phone, then gifting her a shy, boyish smile and a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, yeah… I'm home."

Neither backs away. Heat crawls up her neck, this nervousness nothing new but catching her off guard nonetheless. It's a welcomed sensation, a rejuvenating one. "Welcome back."

"Thanks." Soul cards a hand through his too long hair, the idea that he's in desperate need of a trim crossing his mind so apparently that she can practically hear it. "Maybe you can drop by sometime? Give me ideas on how to decorate?"

She thinks, thinks long and hard - she can't avoid Soul forever, and she's coming to terms that lingering in his periphery is more of a dishonor to their relationship than a solution. The less she sees him, the more she aches for his presence, for normalcy. "Maybe I'll knock on your door unexpectedly one day and see if you're home."

The way he lights up steals her heart all over again. "I'll wait for you until then. And if I'm not there… I mean, the door's not locked if it's you. It's open anytime. Whenever you're ready."


	9. we were so close

"This is Maka." Soul thrusts his phone into a napping Blair's face, and when the brightened screen fails to draw Blair from her pretend nap, he gently bops her nose until she opens one eyelid and regards Maka's picture with mild interest. "She might come by one day, so be nice."

Blair's whiskers twitch in response.

"Yeah, she's kinda nice to look at, even if she reads too much and always looks worried." The knot in his stomach tightens when he focuses on her smiling face, the Nevada sun polishing her ash brown and gold, cheeks blithely pinched and posing next to a giant cactus. That day, he had taken her on a spur of the moment trip to the casino three hours down the highway, the pit stops just as fun as the actual gambling. "Actually, she's cute because of those nerdy things, no matter what. But don't tell anyone I said that."

"Meow," his squatter cat says.

"Don't judge me," he warns, joints protesting his kneeling position to talk face to face with Blair, who's curled up on-slash-hogging his only chair. He falls on his butt, grunting and puffing, rubbing his knees. "Anyway, that's Maka. We were going to get married. It's a long story."

"Meowwwww."

" _Yes_ , she said yes on purpose. You're not the first one to doubt her taste in husbands - I mean, it was a friend marriage, but people always got our relationship messed up."

Now curious, the cat sits up, yellow eyes wide and expectant.

"I got our status messed up too, and I think she did too. She said it. Almost." Soul stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. "But I… don't know what to do."

As if mimicking him, the cat lowers herself onto her front paws too, yawning.

"She kissed me… There was no tongue but that can't be platonic, can it? The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that she likes me back, but, I don't know why she would? She can do better."

The two hold each other's gazes, Blair surrendering first and closing her eyes as soon as her head touches the chair, feigning sleep again.

"I have to do something, but I'm not sure what. Guess I have to make a move or something. Confess. Heart on my sleeve type of shit. Right Blair?"

Her whole tiny body rises and falls along with her deep breathing.

"You're so  _helpful_ ," he deadpans, scratching her tummy. "Great time for you to learn something about personal space and not maul me. I could do without you trying to run up my back when I take a leak, by the way." He heaves a sigh. "But I don't blame you… I'm acting like an emo kid. I never grew out of that phase."

Ten AM rolls around while he pets her, thinking, thinking, nostalgic, wondering what life would be like if Maka had said  _I do_. Hopefully they'd still be married, happily married,  _genuinely_  married.

Maybe he'd still be waiting for her.

"I wasted all this time talking to my  _cat_ ," Soul says aloud, rolling his eyes, slapping himself on the forehead. Still, the pointlessness of the situation doesn't stop him from adding instructions to his goodbye as he pulls on his jacket: "Stay out of trouble, and keep an eye out in case Maka comes by."

X

"I hate you. You didn't have to tell the crew I'm lactose intolerant, you diaper bag."

"I was looking out for you," Soul defends, chewing noisily.

"Now I'm self conscious about how much time I spend in the bathroom! What if people think I have the runny shits every time I go in there, huh? That's not professional."

"Shut up and eat your protein pancakes, Jackie."

" _No_ , the trust is broken now!" She stabs the plastic fork through a three stack of homemade flapjacks, pointing a sharp stare his way. "And you didn't even bring butter."

"Still looking out for you and your health."

"Listen boy, I need  _butter_."

"You're welcome."

Working in the same building as his friend tricks him into believing he's back in high school. Their schedules don't mesh - her dulcet naggy voice broadcasts across not only Death City but the entire southwest region of the country at five am every week day, and he mans the midday shift, overseeing the equipment, flipping switches and handling disasters if and when they arise. When their paths cross, they slap each other five and bombard one another with loving threats or insults, and grabbing food has become their bonding time.

So far so good.

"I hope you know you're the only person I'd make pancakes for," he says, drenching his plate in syrup.

"This is a lie but I love you anyway." She swipes at her mouth with a napkin. "I know you've made pancakes for Maka, too. It's okay, I'm not  _jealous_  or anything."

"You're green with envy," he says, mystifyingly glad that he's wanted.

"Nah, I'm just jaded. My best friend has a best friend who is  _more_ than a best friend but isn't my friend so I can't matchmake-"

" _Jackie-"_

"Chill, chill! Stop choking, I'm kidding. I said I'd stay out of it. Don't be mad at me."

Soul gulps down the piece of pancake that traveled up his nose, leaving the smell of banana wedged in his nostrils. "Good, because I don't want to go through this again."

"Same," she sighs, still cutting her food into tiny pieces, a devilish aura flickering through her serious expression, so fast he believes he imagined it. "Hey, truth or dare?"

A sucker, that's what Soul is, a chump, a naïve moron, always saying the wrong thing: "Truth."

She goes in for the kill. "Do you like,  _like_ -like Maka?"

Something about keeping his  _pre-school_ best friend in the dark all these years about a basic, indisputable truth feels downright awful, like he's denying a part of himself. Regret courses through Soul - yeah, Wes talked about this before, why is he always right? - and coming clean is the best choice he can made all day. "Yeah, I do... More than like-like."

"Aww…" There's something innocent about the way she giggles, aglow with the honor of knowing his secret, his tender side. But the Jackie with the penchant for terrorizing him, like in third grade when she unleashed her pomeranian on him and it chased him around her backyard, comes out of her shell, grinning wickedly. "I'm  _telling_."

His stomach drops.

"Hahaha - nah, just kidding. You told me not to get involved."

She's going to be the death of him.

"It's obvious anyway. I just wanted you to admit it." Jackie takes her time nibbling on a pancake bite, working his last anxious nerve. "The only person who doesn't know it is Maka. You should make it easier for her. Send her some flowers, give her a kiss, something."

More coughing, this time the syrup almost dumps him into an early grave.  _Oh_ \- she already gave him a kiss! Maybe he does need the flowers. "I love you" flowers.

"Speaking of, I hope Wes enjoyed the flowers  _I_  gave to you to give to him, because I'm so sweet and caring-"

"He trashed them."

" _No_!" Jackie's eyes widen, the disbelief apparently traumatizing.

"Tsubaki didn't want to tell me but when I dropped by to pick up a floral arranging book the next day I saw them in their trash."

"I want to point out that what goes around comes around," she says, sticking her tongue out at him before sombering up. "But  _wow_ , Wes did that? He must be  _pissed_."

Soul shrugs, bracing himself for whatever else Wes's fury brings. "I guess. He's supposed to come by later for more wedding stuff, so if I go missing you know who did it."

X

After work, Soul detours to the pet store to stock up on cat food, cat toys, and two scratching posts, but the scene greeting him in his bedroom makes him want to return the purchases and kick Blair out into the streets where she belongs. Denial is his first reaction when the shreds of fabric strewn about the bed, dresser, and even the top of his bookshelf register as too familiar.

"What did you do?" he asks her, and she purrs in his arms, well aware he craves affection. He bends down, holding one of the pieces between his thumb and index finger like it's contaminated with radioactive waste.

" _Meeoww_ ," she says, paws on his chest.

"Fuck my life," he whispers, blood running cold. A glance into the closet confirms his worst nightmare. Panic foams in his chest, crinkly and  _uproarious,_  the adrenaline rush clashing with the escalating dread horrendously. He's nauseated, but vomiting would only worsen the situation.

Hell breaks loose when Wes arrives half an hour later and Soul breaks the news to him.

"You're  _fucking_  with me, right?"

It's a complete one eighty. Revulsion extinguished like a candle light, Soul's vision bleeds red. Punching out his brother becomes a fantasy he's too close to fulfilling. "No, it's a real thing that happened. A mistake. She probably thought the pant legs were dangly toys."

"And she decided to climb up and shred the blazers, too?"

"Ask her, not me," Soul spits, defensive of poor stray Blair who listens and passes minimal but accurate judgement on him. And she's cuddly, easy to talk to, receptive to his emotions and headspace, always there -  _ugh_ , he's turned into a cat lady.

"How the  _fuck_  did the cat get into a closed closet?"

"She's streetsmart?" Soul throws his hands up. "I don't know, I'm not a cat whisperer."

Wes glowers, his disdain palpable. "These tuxes were custom  _tailored_."

"Yes, I know, I'm the one who got that arranged. Listen, I'm sure the designer still has everyone's measurements-"

"It took them  _months_  to make!"

"Just throw some money at them, they'd work overtime to get another set in to us. The wedding's two months away. Calm your nuts."

Scowling, Wes shakes his head impatiently. "I know it's not a big deal to you because you don't give two shits about my wedding - you can at least look at me when I'm yelling at you, Soul."

"Sorry," he seethes, hating the venomous taste in his mouth, scanning the cat hair coated floor, physically unable to glance at his brother. "I was looking around for your mind, because it seems you lost it somewhere."

"That's the shit I was talking about all those weeks ago," Wes says, clutching the grey tattered fabric in his hands until his knuckles whiten. Damn, he must be restraining himself from strangling Soul. "I don't appreciate your bad attitude and negativity."

"You don't appreciate me at all," Soul corrects.

Wes  _laughs_ , ugly and bitter, wearing them expertly despite both rarely making public appearances. Figures - he's good at  _everything_. "I asked you to do one thing: store the groomsmen's tuxes until the wedding. You couldn't even do that for me."

"It was a mistake! Blair doesn't know what she's doing, she's a  _cat_."

"If you cared more you would have been more careful!"

An eerie calm washes over Soul. He retreats into himself to discover that he's rotten to the core, black with mold, the pent up hostility mounting to critical levels, his blood boiling. "You don't like  _me_. How I am or act, or-"

"It's hard to like a jealous pessimist."

A vital artery in Soul's brain must burst because a it feels like bomb detonates in his left temple, the pain scalding, knifelike. "Sometimes I can't stand you, Wes."

His brother throws his hands up in a what-can-you-do manner, his detachment too natural, like he killed a car engine. "Well  _fuck,_  you're not easy to be around either."

The words are a sword through his stomach. Soul stumbles backward, tripping over Blair, who wrapped herself around his ankles as if to protect him from this cold, apathetic stranger named Wes Evans.

"Don't worry about keeping those for the memories or anything. Throw them in the dumpster or cut them up for toilet paper. Whatever. I'll rush order new ones."

Sauntering off with violent, passive aggressive poise only a refined gentleman could pull off, Wes slams the front door shut behind him before Soul can think. One single thought unfolds in his mind and stays for the rest of the evening: it's so  _quiet_ now.

X

Nights are for feeling without clamming up. Everything hurts more - his first real argument with his brother, his empty apartment, Maka's distance. He's alone and in need of a long, warm hug, but all he has available are darkness, a space heater blowing mediocre hot air at him, and Blair sleeping directly on his feet so he can't move or else risk kicking her across the room.

There must be some connection between him and Maka, like a string with each tied to their fingers, because she calls him, also in need.

"I can't sleep," she says, and he closes his eyes to imagine her next to him. "I feel horrible about not planning Tsubaki's bachelorette party. I can't believe I forgot about it."

"You're planning their royal wedding  _and_ others at the same time. Try not to be too hard on yourself."

"But you should have seen her face, Soul, she was heartbroken."

"They planned the event pretty fast though, it turned out okay."

Maka's voice cracks. "I feel  _so_ bad."

Sand clots his throat, his tummy warm with her sorrow, the pain radiating, magnifying, heavy like lead but shapeless like air, filling him. He can't breathe listening to her sniffle, envisioning her tucked in her bed for refuge. Clenching her teeth. Face wet, blotchy. Silent, only whimpers peeking through the bottle where she's trapped her anguish.

"She planned it all in one sentence," she says quietly. "Why couldn't I do that?"

"Maka…"

Nothing. She's silent, probably biting her finger to mute her pain the way she did when her parents separated and her mama moved out. "I'm  _so_ tired, Soul. And I miss you."

Whoa - although the change of topic is unexpected and he's not sure where her thoughts have traveled, his eyes go glassy automatically. "I miss you too."

She gulps, and guilt nearly eats him alive for being another source of her anguish. "Let's spend more time together?"

"'Course." For once his brain and mouth coordinate and work together. "Wanna go with me to Tsu and Wes's party? I'll pick you up. I hope you don't mind showing up with wind blown hair."

"I'll wear it half up," she sniffle-laughs.

As both silence and the night settles in, Soul cherished one truth: they're  _together_. Almost. She's not here in his bed and he's not brave enough to change that (he should send  _flowers_ , the answer's been staring him straight in the face), but at least she's drifting back.

All he had to do was wait.

Hunger approaches - he's watched her sleep before, when she dozed off while inking invitations or marathoning a reality TV show, but the night magnifies his loneliness, one only Maka can fill. With eyes closed, he lingers in that place between dreams and reality, thinking about her nose, her hands, her smile, her drive, her ambition.

She's so close, yet so far. He wants to be with her  _so_  bad it hurts.

"Hey Maka?"

Nothing, but she's there, out of his reach. She must have fallen asleep.

"I have something to tell you."

Nothing, only soft breathing.

"... I still love you."

X

"Hi, I saw something you absolutely had to have," Patti chirps the next morning, pushing her way into the apartment past a shirtless Soul, who wouldn't be able to differentiate between up and down in his drowsy state. "Happy impromptu house warming! You should think about hosting one soon, your place is… empty."

Soul rubs his eyes, squinting at the potted baby aloe vera plant in her hands. "Did you steal those from someone's yard?"

"No, it was public property." Her cheery grin falls when she takes a closer look at him. "What's up? You look..."

"Emo, yeah, yeah," he finishes for her, swiping a hand through his hair.

"It's…" She taps on her smart watch. "Like, four in the evening, why are you sleeping?"

_Because I stayed up late listening to Maka breathing and hating myself_ would have been his reply, but he'd be forced to open up about his feelings toward not only her but  _himself_ , and right now, he lacks nice things to report about Soul Evans, moody, lovesick, awful little brother.

Instead Soul reasons that he plans to charge up on sleep in  _case_  he stays out late partying with the squad. If he and Maka don't ditch, too guilty to show their faces.

"No  _ifs_ , you mean  _when_ , silly."

"Wes hates me."

"Siblings can love and hate each other at the same time." Skipping to the windowsill where she introduces the aloe vera to its new dwelling, she turns to Soul, her attention sidetracked when she notices Blair poking her small head out of the bathroom, watching.

"Wes hates me and hates being my brother," Soul continues, well aware he's parroting a five year old whose candy was stolen, but he can't unhear what Wes said during the argument. Nor can Soul unfeel the rejection, even though he brought it upon himself.

"Hmm… let me say this: Sissy has my back. That's what older siblings do, and that's what I think Wes is doing for you, too."

"Yeah but… he's just… so outgoing and loud and annoying. He doesn't understand me." Soul throws himself flat on the floor, reveling in the floor's hardness against his knotted back muscles. "And when I try to tell him stuff he goes like, 'everything's gonna be great, you can do it, you gotta dream it to achieve it', blah blah blah. We live totally different lives and always have."

"I can see that. He's  _soooo_  handsome, like a movie star," Patti adds, smacking her lips to reel Blair into her lap. "You're jealous."

"Am not," he lies to the ceiling, the dots of rumpled paint moving whenever he focuses on another point. "He says I have a stank ass attitude."

"Well, it's not  _untrue_."

Soul flips her off.

"That's why I got you this aloe vera, it looks prickly, but really, it's helpful and nice to have around."

"I'm…" Soul closes his eyes, the ceiling paint playing tricks on him. "Thanks Patti, I really do appreciate you. That's the… most normal, nice thing you've ever said."

"Aye aye," she pirates, saluting him. "But…"

"I don't think Wes sees me like that," he finishes for her, disappointment making a home in his chest.

"You talk a monster ton of crap about him but his opinion means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

Guilty as charged. But he can't admit it, so he opens his eyes just so that he can wince. "He  _bothers_ me."

Patti barks out a laugh astoundingly loud for her petite body. "It's weird, I've always thought that you and Sissy are alike, and me and Wes are alike. We like to make people smile and be happy and act like we don't have a care in the world. You and Sissy are worry warts and think too much. She can be a killjoy sometimes - _"don't scare me, stop trespassing, you're going to get hurt"_ \- but I know she does it because she worries."

Sure, Soul connects the dots between himself and Liz, who both shared the same love of punk rock bands and the apathetic, cool kid reputation in high school, but the comparison between Patti and Wes lacks concrete substance. While both have childlike optimism , Wes - well, Wes… lacks empathy. Whenever Soul needed a listening ear, Wes supplied him with opinions, suggestions that resembled orders, and misunderstandings.

"...So, the way I see it, I don't think Wes is trying to talk down to you. He doesn't hate you. You both see the world differently," Patti is saying, proud, becking Blair over animatedly, blowing kisses.

"No  _shit_."

"Yeah!" She snaps her fingers, hat flopping to the floor in all her excitement. "Exactly like that. Wes believes in that law of attraction stuff. Positivity brings in positivity, so when he sees you acting negative, he gets frustrated."

Soul narrows his eyes at nothing in particular, though misdirected rage pops up out of the blue. "So Wes thinks I get what I deserve?"

"Nooo, no way! He probably thinks his way of thinking is right because it's worked for him. He doesn't realize he might be kinda wrong to believe that everyone should think the same way as him."

"He's forgetting that luck has something to do with it, too." Hands now clasped together and rested on his stomach, he feels like a corpse at a viewing. "He's lucky, and that's why he's so annoying. It's like he keeps hoarding luck and good vibes and it makes me want to scratch my eyes out because he needs to be knocked down a peg."

In the corner of his eye, Patti beckons a skeptical Blair over using her hat. "Mmm-hmm, exactly! He doesn't understand that not everyone has his same luck."

Blair pounces on Soul's chest, claiming him as her own, and refuses to budge when he swats gently at her, trying unsuccessfully to dig her claws out of his shirt. "He tries to fix stuff how  _he_ thinks they should be fixed and doesn't think that maybe it won't work because we're  _different_  people."

"C'mere, kitty kitty kitty… come to Aunt Patti~"

" _Ughh,_ he's a brat. He's a bad listener, too. Always brushing me off with when I complain or try to tell him something. 'You just have to be positive!' And then he wonders why I don't tell him shit -  _oww_ , Blair!"

Said cat scampers off Soul, nails digging into his skin through his shirt fabric, and springs into Patti's inviting arms, purring delightedly.

"Aww, who's soft and precious? Who loves her Aunt Patti?"

"Stupid Wes," Soul mutters, bolstering himself up to his elbow to stare daggers at his pet. "Him and his stale empty words can suck on a cactus."

"He means well I think," Patti says, her attention split between him and Blair, though she has eyes for no one but the latter. "Like I said… he reminds me of me, and Sissy reminds me of you. When Sissy starts crying and stays in bed, I don't know what to do besides try to make her smile and forget about it. I'm not the best comforter, no pun intended. But I do love her."

Soul stares at the two but doesn't see them. His mind drifts, showing him a picture slideshow: Wes front row and center at one of Soul's piano recitals, Wes teaching Soul how to drive, Wes coordinating that apprenticeship job in LA, Wes asking him to be his best man…

"Welp, I gotta go get ready for the get together tonight." Patti hugs Blair close before setting her down, telling her to run along and play. "You're coming too, right?"

"Wes is gonna shoot me."

"Great, then we'll see you there." Cowboy hat on her head again, she surveys Blair's chair, food and water bowls, the dust gathering in the corner, and the amp he picked up at a garage sale two weekends ago. "This is sad. I bet you only have one plate and fork and spoon and mug and - ah, that's it! I'll plan a housewarming party for you!"

Dismissing the suggestion is his first instinct. Someone envious and screwed up like Soul deserves alienation, a time out, the cold shoulder - no, no, scratch that. God, what had Wes lectured him about, to honor his feelings? Yeah, that's it. Strengthening the reflex to stop talking down to himself might take months, years, a lifetime to build, but baby steps go a long way. What he really needs is a therapist to help him work through his inferiority complex issues, family, and, most of all,  _friends_.

"Thanks, Patti, that would mean a lot to me."

X

It's spring. The remnants of winter linger in the breeze, but the air is fresh and crisp and reinvigorating as he pulls up to Maka's apartment complex. She's waiting for him, dress flowing, streetlight sliding down her neck.

His hands burn with the memory, reliving the feel of her skin.

"I hope I don't flash anyone," she yells as she climbs on, bare thighs fitting perfectly around him.

"Don't do it for free," Soul jokes, fully expecting a karate chop to his skull.

"If you drive fast enough people won't know it's me," she counters, patting his shoulders for him to drive forward.

Soul is but a humble servant.

X

This time, the lights aren't neon pink, glazing the world in reality altering vibrancy. No, hues of blues and purples and silver fuse together, watercoloring Maka all the same. The music vibrates through his bones, and once again, he can't feel his heartbeat.

"I hate crowds. I don't listen to this kind of music. It's hot. I'm thirsty. I-"

"Soul, we  _just_  got here." She surveys the people sashaying and shimmying and mingling in the vicinity, searching for familiar faces. "Help me lo - ah, I see them!"

Jackie's sequin dress signals Soul and Maka to their party, Kim and Patti giggling with their heads together, Liz chatting up a brunette at the next table.

"You look like a disco ball," Soul tells Jackie, who twirls around, shaking her ass. "What's that glittery mess on your face?"

"Your hopes and dreams," she says, outlining her cheekbones like she's selling a product on the late hour shows. "It's the best highlighter ever."

An elated shout draws their attention - clearly, Liz snubbing her potential date to welcome Maka - and Soul shoots Jackie a warning.

"My lips are sealed," she promises.

Funny, he thinks as the group convenes and he notices Maka fidget in Jackie's presence, that Jackie's habit of flinging gratuitous advice doesn't quite rub him the wrong way. Deep inside, he knows it's out of love, so why should it be different for Wes?

The answer materializes in his head soon after. She's loud when angered, opinionated, and brash - not cocky or smooth talking like perfect, model-esque Wes.

Speak of the Devil. His older brother joins the group five seconds later, awash with sweat and the thrill of having danced with his fiance.

"Hey," Soul says when their eyes meet.

Wes nods in acknowledgement, curt, aloof. Tsubaki unravels herself from Wes's arm to embrace Soul, thanking him for coming, for all the work he's put into the planning, for  _staying_ , for being her family. As much as the words touch something raw and delicate inside him, Soul refuses to accept her kindness, too suspicious that she's atoning for actions that shouldn't fall as her responsibility.

Still, he can't push her away. Their slate is clean. Better not sully it this early.

"Thanks, Tsu. You're the best."

And she truly is, because she tows a stony faced Wes away when the DJ plays their request, but not fast enough - an impish voice whispers to Soul that damage is already done, and even perfect Wes would probably agree.

X

"Wes hates me."

Maka's face breaks. " _Oh_ -"

"It's fine, I don't want to talk about it."

Ice cubes in her strawberry lemonade clink as she sets her glass down on the tall round table they claimed as their own after fleeing the group. Migrating to the opposite side of the club had been a mutual agreement, especially after Wes made a toast and excluded his little brother from the list of people he holds dear.

Just when Soul thought he suffered all that he possibly can,  _that_ happened, and he's not torn up, no, but  _not_ trembling is impossible, the jittery energy expanding within him with no way to escape.

Maka  _understands_ , reads him like braille. "Let's dance-"

That would require  _touching,_  and he'd like nothing more, but, his day isn't complete without a dose of sabotage. "I don't dance and you know that."

She stands her ground. "Liar. You do, I've seen you."

"I can  _waltz_ , not booty grind or krump."

Hooking her arm around his, she tugs, grunting with the struggle of moving him. "C'mon, I'll teach you the pon pon dance."

"Miss me with that techno shit, Maka."

She gasps, exaggerated and offended. "It's fun! You're just still mad that I beat you at the DDR version of it back in tenth grade."

He scoffs. "My shoelaces were untied!"

Kicking her shoes off, she shimmies her shoulders, jazz hands out. "Bull."

He's dying - how can such a dumb dance be so… cute? "They were!"

"LIES," she taunts, easily picking up where she left off, hair bouncing with her movements, arms flailing, legs springing out like a rockette in slow motion, head dipping forward and to the sides.

"Maka,  _god_ , you're embarrassing me," he groans, using his hand as a visor against any spectators. "You're not even on the rhythm."

"Because I'm thinking about the pon pon song, not the one that's playing - oooh." She's breathing heavy, slowing to a stop. "Oh! I know this one."

"I…" He listens. It's a slow number, the couples on the dance floor melding together, arms around each other, faces tucked into necks, lips on cheeks. "I have never heard this."

She tucks her hair behind her ear, shy and hesitant but decisive for once. "Is it okay if I lead?"

_Always_ , he wants to say, but absolutes stand as flimsy, tenuous promises in her eyes, and he's trying to bridge the gap between them, not drive them apart. "I'm your man, Maka."

They sway in a lackadaisical circle for that song and the following ones regardless of their tempo, a good three feet apart, joined at only the hands, until Maka lets go first and asks him to take her home. She doesn't invite him inside, but after he walks her to the door, mounts back on his bike, and glances up at her window, he can see her, peeking at him through the blinds.


	10. oh, honey

_Outraged_ , caffeine headache-y, and a lot in love with hearing his voice over the phone, she hits the call button instinctively as she closes up the office.

"They cancelled," she says through gritted teeth when a drowsy, low  _hello_ rasps in her ear. Pins and needles slide down her spine. Caving in to them sparks a light within her, and repressing these feelings for her best friend has become a thing of the past thanks to falling asleep together via nightly calls.

She's weak, and it feels  _good_  to give in to fear for once.

"Whaa?"

"The photographer, the caterer, and the dumb videographer!"

Soul whistles, and Maka counts the cracks in the sidewalk underneath her feet as she imagines his lips rounding, scruffy chin jutting forward. "The holy trinity."

"The wedding's in a month, why is this happening? These people could have made  _bank_  because I told them to name a price, but nooooo. No!" She's so  _pissed_  she can practically taste blood in her mouth, shock waves tearing through her heel from stomping.

"Their loss," Soul reasons, cool, composed, and every bit confident this set back won't ruin Wes's wedding, though Maka senses resentment at the core of that rare optimism. She can almost hear his shrug. Nothing would be more satisfying than tracing his mouth's sharp curves with her own, but where he's absent physically he's so  _near_ , so she'll accept the trade off.

For now.

Maybe. If she's brave.

Learning that she's fallible comes with perks.

"What are we going to do? I'm,  _blegh_ , so tired of things going wrong, Soul. Everything  _has_  to go absolutely perfect, but now I have trust issues. At least I can count on my florist."

"Yeah, he's a pretty dependable guy," he says, his amusement provoking a begrudging smile on her own face.

_Jerk_. He could at least puff and huff in solidarity and invite her out to dinner, or ask to meet at bookstore, but  _she's_ always been the leader in their relationship. Soul won't step out of his place, won't cross a line she drew herself, won't trespass, won't disrespect her even if she asked. Knowing she's meant to make the first move is one thing, accepting it another much more difficult thing -

_Oh_.

Back then, while Soul held her in the bathtub, words had failed her. She hadn't been clear.  _I_   _love you_ , she had said, but she's always said it that exact way, never wavering or deviating, and the irony that he's used to hearing her confess repeatedly in her own secret way and probably,  _maybe_  thought nothing unusual about it could burst her lungs.

It's hopeful, desperate thinking, but she's increasingly both the more they talk.

"Maka, are you still there?"

She blinks, cars and cobblestoned streets and nameless passerbys in her surroundings zipping back into focus. "Oh! What?"

"I was saying, we'll find something. I'll start looking up caterers."

Calm Soul is the best Soul. It's rare, but she's glimpsed it before, and she wonders, as she pounds on the pedestrian signal and abides by the 'do not cross' sign, if it's too late to see his other sides.

"That's the main thing," he's saying, with a touch of professional detachment he hadn't mastered until the dispute with Wes, whatever it was, because Soul's explanations have revealed nothing. "If anything we can probably get some amateurs to shoot the wedding and Wes won't know because he thinks everything is great. I might know a guy from work who does photography for fun-"

"Book him!" 'Go' flashes at her in bright green, and she scampers across the street, her favorite bookstore now in sight. "I want to see his portfolio just to make sure he doesn't use Paint or something to edit but I'm past the point of caring. What about the videographer, any ideas?"

"Uhm." There's an uncertain pause, the only indication he's not a unruffled businessman, a confident stranger. Funny how she appreciates his bashfulness - if anything, it's a sign their relationship is improving. Soul is a demure soul, after all. "Well, my mom  _does_  own Death City's only TV station, and half of the ones in Nevada…"

"Yes! Just do it. Ahhhh, I think I can breathe again?" She sucks in air so violently she might keel over. "I can't believe it - I got the calls not even an hour ago, and you've already made everything better."

"It doesn't have to be perfect," he says simply, gently. It's like a hug after a long cry, like coming home to him after a long, horrible, feet-cramping day. "It just has to  _be_."

Before she can think twice, she's glimpsing down at the front of her shirt. No ink, no blackened bodice, the white dress tainted. Just her silk blouse. Relief is talking herself out of a panic attack by rationalizing that well over a year stands between that day and this moment, hours upon hours, minutes, seconds, and time will go on perpetually, taking her further away…

"Thanks for everything, Soul, you're the best partner."

And it's true, she wouldn't lie to him.

"We make a great team," he praises her.

_I still love you_ , she needs to say, to confess, but a goodbye escapes her instead, the other end of the line cutting off after a few more comforting words. Knots swell in her tummy. Festering with things left unsaid has dissolved a few spots on the walls of the maze she built inside herself, but finding the weakest point might take time. It would be a miracle if she ever found it.

Not that the moment, if it ever comes, has to be  _perfect_ , but she's paralyzed with fear of it going  _wrong_ -

The scent of books welcome her as she steps into the store. Shelves tower above her, tables showcasing coloring books, crafts, games, and other quiet, creative hobbies stand in the aisle as she beelines to the self help section. There's no better way of helping herself than  _reading_ , and following expert advice from a licensed, educated outsider who won't know she's seeking guidance and thus can't judge or spread rumors is ideal.

_How to Love_ , one of the thin, hand-sized book title reads. Promising.  _The Art of Kissing_  also screams for a chance to make a home on her bookcase at home.  _I Care for You_ ,  _Your Inner Romantic,_ and  _Medicine for the Lovesick_  join the first two, and after picking out a few more, replacing them with others, then replacing some of  _those_  with the second batch, she decides the original five were the perfect starter set.

Humming (off-key, Soul would tease if he were here) evolves into internal shrieking when Maka joins the line at the checkout lane, the girl in front of her toying with her long brown hair striking Maka as so  _familiar_. Possibly an old high school acquaintance, or a past client, or a local celebrity she's seen on Death City News. The city is weird like that.

As if hearing Maka's thoughts, the girl glances over her shoulder.

Jacqueline Diehl-Lantern stare drills right through Maka.

Out of all the people she's skirmished with, Jackie claims the prize as the most savage, choosing to ignore Maka's presence - not before peeping at the books cradled in her arms though, a shit eating grin plastering on her face. Dulling the mortification means Maka hugs her purchases to her chest to hide them, debating whether she should drop them, run out, and head for the library instead. Sure would be cheaper. But she's already here, and, because she harnesses her bullheadedness for good, resolves to stay.

Jackie nabs a stick of gum, chocolate kisses, and gummy bears to ring up along with her adult stress relief coloring book purchase, and leaves without further acknowledgement of Maka, no indication of an impending confrontation.

Good, good. Maka steps up to the register, calmer. There's no solid reason to cower because of Jackie anyway. They might not be friends per say, but they're not enemies either, not strangers. They're friends of friends who happened to miss chances of getting to know one another, but unfortunately for Maka, Jackie is ballsy. She's leaned against the poster covered window when Maka steps out into the sunlit, arid May day.

"I know why you're mad at me," Maka says immediately, feet like lead, anchoring her to her spot.

"Then tell me, because I'm not sure myself." There's no enmity in Jackie's voice, only repentant befuddlement. "You don't owe me any explanations because it's your and Soul's business, and I wanted to clear the air… I didn't mean to make an ugly look at you when you came over all those months ago. You know, when Wes was playing his violin and asked you to visit."

"I appreciate the apology." Even if Maka can't move past the caustic glare she received, she knows Jackie meant no ill will. Hearing it proves that her logical side had been right all along - no, their friends hadn't picked sides, and no, she hadn't been blowing the situation out of proportion.

"I guess I have stronger feelings about my best friend being hurt than I realized… But that's my problem and shouldn't excuse my assholeness."

"To be honest, Soul is my best friend  _too_. I would be upset if someone hurt him, just like you. And I  _am_  upset."

How could Maka not? X marks the spot to a treasure cove of rejection feels, and it's on  _her_. Not because Soul is entitled to marry her, but because she could have handled the situation better. Maybe phoned a friend to cancel the nuptials, or sent a text message, and even though she regrets not showing up due to selfish reasons, the silver lining is magnificent. Now she and Soul  _talk_  more, touch more, their relationship deeping to a level she hadn't thought possible, not with the taboo of liking her best friend hanging over her head.

The machinery in her mind overreads him constantly. What he did, didn't do, what he said, didn't say…

"I'm also…" Jackie huffs out, evidently annoyed at herself for ranting. "Well, I'm… like, I guess I'm trying to say I'm sorry your wedding didn't turn out how you wanted. I know you were looking forward to it. Kim would tell me all the time 'oh, Maka's so happy' and go on about how beautiful it was going to be. And it was! Oh... Uhm." She rolls her eyes, mumbling to herself about putting her foot in her mouth. "Shit. I'm not good at this. I'm sorry."

Papa had taken pictures of the venue and made a scrapbook for Maka in the weeks following Soul's move to LA, but she had refused to look at it, giving her papa the cold shoulder until he dropped the subject, arming herself with that tactic whenever he broached the subject later. She's never  _seen_  where she almost married Soul, opting to safeguard how they talked about it: dark, with lots of soft lights, a starry night.

"I think I get what you're saying," Maka says, switching her bag from one hand to the other,

fidgeting. "Thanks. And thanks for being upfront of about… that night."

"It was wrong of me, even if I didn't mean to be malicious."

"Well…" Maka shifts her weight from foot to foot, debating. Since confiding in Liz, who she's known since seventh grade when the Thompson sisters transferred in from the state ward house, she's felt lighter. What's there to stop Maka from telling Jackie, too? Everyone already knows - their circle of friends, their neighbors, Wes, Soul's parents, Maka's mama, her  _papa_. The unrequited feelings are burning a hole through her chest, and lack of bravery to fess up to Soul leads Maka to believe she has to build her way up to that point.

"I want to tell you something too," she says, sticking out her pinky like she's drinking tea. "Pinky promise not to tell anyone?"

For an insane, trust-corroding second, Maka envisions Jackie at the radio station, edging close to her mic:  _What would you do if you left your love at the altar? Well, let me tell you Maka Albarn's story, who's too heartbroken to tell it herself._ But then Jackie wraps her pinky around Maka's, squeezing. "I promise."

"I have a crush on Soul," Maka whispers. "But shhh it's a secret, especially from him."

"No  _way_ ," Jackie whispers back, pretend shock exaggerated, " _him_? He's a  _dork_. Used to straighten his hair in middle school even though it's already straighter than a dude wearing basketball shorts in Antarctica. No one would believe me if I said anything anyway, so your secret is safe with me."

Maka breaks out into a smile, covering her face. "Ugh, he really is a dork, isn't he?"

"Mhmm, a real emo if I ever saw one. But there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe that's your type."

"Soul is my type," rattles out of her mouth, and when the statement registers in her head, she hopes an anchor nosedives onto her head from above, like in a Looney Tune cartoon. "Uhm, I have to go... It'll be late by the time I make it home."

"Have fun reading your new books, let me know if that kissing book helps out. You walking?"

Nodding in the affirmative is all Maka can muster, all the blood in her body rushing to her flushed face.

Jackie scrunches her nose at her, exaggerated and jokingly, something Maka's only seen her do to friends. "When are you getting a car?"

"I don't mind walking, it helps me think. Sometimes I ride the bus though, and that's just fine."

"Too much thinking can spoil your brain, like leaving milk out for too long. Sometimes you gotta put things away in their place and let them sit." She adjusts her messenger bag strap before reaching in to reel out her keys, shaking them at Maka. "You probably sit at home cross-stitching and listening to murder mystery shows, thinking about Soul and his dimple and his dumb crooked face."

Impressed at Jackie's ability to describe Maka to a T despite the two exchanging minimal words, Maka lets her guard down. Although Jackie's wife is one of Maka's oldest friends, and even with Soul serving as another strong link, the girls just never… fit together. Perhaps a combination of not having time to bond alone and opposing personalities can be attributed to their disconnect, so confiding in her like an old friend she bumped into after years is  _weird_.

Of course, she and Jackie might never become close, but at least they're settling their differences.

"Also, you're not fun at all," Jackie continues. "If I had asked Soul when he was getting a car he would have told me 'when you learn to parallel park, because I've been traumatized ever since that time I hit the meter', but anywaaaaay…"

Maka lifts an expectant eyebrow, mentally making a note to ask Kim for details on that mishap.

"He lives up there now." Smooth as freshly frozen ice, Jackie points at a window on the apartment building complex in front of them, where a familiar black cat peers at them, her tiny nose pressed against the window.  _Blair!_ "So, y'know, two of your favorite things are close together, you can kill two birds with one stone if you wanted."

He's so  _close_. Easier to reach, a phone call away. Three flights up, a door in between them. Waiting on the other side. She hasn't confirmed a time or a date to drop by - he left that open and in her hands,  _when she's ready_. Sure, it's nothing more than a visit, hanging out with an old friend and checking out his new place, but the sense that he means  _more_ when he reminds her that his door's open inspires giddiness. Maka doesn't want to get her hopes up.

"Anyway, I'll give you a ride home if you want, but I'm not gonna stop the car for you to get out. You know how to tuck and roll right?"

"I ducked out of my own wedding, of course I do."

Jackie guffaws, elbowing her in the rib, the fondness in her jab a weird honor for Maka. "You're more okay than I thought, Maka, you booknerd." She squints, apparently worrying about coming on too strong, their friendship unrolling too fast. "I guess."

X

The front door to her apartment hangs open when she sprints up a flight of stairs, eager to scrub the day's gross emotions off with a sudsy loofah and nestle in bed with a Sailor Moon plushie and one of her new books.

But  _noooo_ , no.

Daughter duties call.

"Papa, lock up when you're here," she says, loudly slamming it shut for emphasis. "Someone could have snuck in and stole something or hurt you. Or like, an animal could have ran inside. That's what happened to Soul-"

Her mouth snaps closed out of instinct. Shutting down in Papa's presence is more habit than a defense mechanism. Thirteen year old Maka vowed never to let him into her life  _emotionally_  even if she couldn't shun him physically - him being her only present parent, lalala -and  _damn_  can that girl hold a grudge. Too many daddy-daughter dances weren't enjoyed because of ridicule from classmates every time Papa openly and brazenly flirted with one of his coworkers (her  _teachers_ , for god's sake) or, worse, snuck away to cop a feel.

_Ugh_!

Who cares if that was consensual and women actually find her two-timing, midnight sneaking, lying Papa attractive? No one asked Maka if it was okay - she didn't consent to her family splitting apart. Even now, adult Maka wrestles with balancing her life with  _both_  parents, and it's been so long since they've been together she can't dig up anything but rage when Mama acts cordial toward her ex-husband.

And then, flashbacks of bedtime stories, Papa listening to her problems, and quizzing her for upcoming tests mitigate that animosity, but those good times lay buried underneath too many memories of waiting for him with her jacket on because he promised to take her to the park after work and he never followed through. Always too fixated on other girls to tend to his  _angel_  and his wife, his main squeeze.

Many rights don't fix a major wrong.

Papa emerges from the bathroom, tendrils of steam curling out, dissipating. "What's that, Angel?"

She forces air out of her nose, pursing her lips. "Nothing."

"Soul got himself a stray, huh," he comments, apparently not hard of hearing after all, just playing stupid.

Maka's vision tunnels, an angry void blooming inside her like a cancer. Two things eat away at her:  _why_  is Papa tossing his hair towel on the floor like he  _lives_  here, and why does ' _stray'_ rub her the wrong way?

Homeless cats shouldn't shoulder the burden of the negative connotation attached to that ugly word. Only papas with unfaithful intentions deserve that title.

" _Yeah_ , he let in a stray," she says too forcefully, "but it's only because he has a kind heart, and the cat's a good cat, a cute one. He took her in and they help each other out."

Papa makes his way to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard for a glass and easing his way through the fridge. "Soul doesn't seem like a cat person, but stray cats are mean, so-"

" _You're_ a stray too, you know that?"

"I do, that's why I said they're mean," her papa says evenly, like she hadn't just insulted him, cursed him out like a sailor. He drinks his orange juice, at peace.

"But," she sputters, hacking away at her brain for more vocabulary. Yelling rarely relieves a fraction of the fury, but her fuse is dangerously slow and explosive. "Actually, hold up, time out, one conversation at a time! What I first said was, stop forgetting to close the door when you're here. You always leave it open,  _wide_  open, and it's annoying and dangerous. It's disrespectful to me and my apartment."

Papa's stare is too understanding. He never does fight back, taking her tantrums and mood swings like a punching bag. "I'll do better, Angel."

"You're always letting too many people in," she goes on, coming to terms that one of the dams inside her finally ruptured, the accumulation of childhood grief and injustice too enormous to keep trapped. "I hate it."

"That's always been my flaw," he explains, pensive, faraway look on his like he's reliving his mistakes in the span of two seconds. "I'm too easy. Imperfect."

Maka  _knows_  - that's why his and her mama's till death do us part promise hadn't panned out. It was doomed from the start - her mama managed to graduate high school even while nursing a newborn, but the stress of juggling a toddler, college work, a job waitressing, and Papa's multiple affairs crushed her, chased her off with her luggage in hand not only once but four times, the last for good.

Perfect and Imperfect don't balance out.

"Back when it was happening, you didn't even seem sorry about it," Maka says, moving to dump her bag of new books and chocolates Jackie hurled at her as a sign of friendship on the coffee table, wiping sweat off her brow. Summer is approaching, and so is her meltdown. "You acted like you weren't trying to better yourself. Yeah, you kept saying you were sorry, but you never went through with it until it was too late."

Papa says nothing.

"And _that's_  when you stopped and changed. When it was too late." With how intently she's grimacing at the table, she's surprised it hasn't broken. "When Mama didn't need you anymore. When  _I_ didn't need you anymore."

Not a sound comes from the kitchen.

"So stop leaving the door open here. You can do it all you want at your own place but not  _here_ , because I'm picky about who I let in. You let yourself in all the time, and that's fine because you're my papa, but I…" She thinks about Soul waiting at their starry night, waiting, waiting. "I'm like you. Too late."

"Is it really too late?" he asks, and he sounds so  _sad_ , so defeated, so worn, tired. It's like Papa doesn't know what hit him, some of her feelings for Soul mixed in with her unresolved family pain, and while it's unfair to Papa, Maka isn't sure how to apologize. "For the two of us?"

"To be Mama's husband yeah, that ship has sailed, and you know it. But to be my papa… well, I don't kick you out, so…" She's pouring and can't seal the wound. "It's gonna take time."

Papa tears up, and because he's loyal to nothing and no one, he lets them flow. "All this time I thought that if I was around all the time, I could make up for the family I lost, but ever since Soul left-"

She can't  _breathe_. "He didn't leave  _me_ , he went to LA. I left him first. So I guess you could say  _I_ strayed. Like father like daughter. And Soul left, like Mama, because what else were they going to do? Stay? For what? It was time to move on."

"Loving someone isn't easy," her papa starts, like Maka doesn't already know. "I always came back, but by the time I realized I shouldn't have, Mama had already moved on. But you're smart, Angel, so smart and loyal. You're like your mama. You know when you've come across a good thing."

Kicking him while he's down won't bring Maka any pleasure. And  _this_ , god this is horrible, her papa exposed, blindsided by his daughter's rampage but letting her name his flaws and pick at them like a vulture.

Thinking is Maka Albarn's specialty.

Confused as she feels about him, he's the first person that cradled her straight out of the womb, the first to tell her he loved her as she cried and cried and cried. He taught her to count to a hundred, took her to the library every Saturday, and if a cold took her out of commission that weekend, he would shuttle there by himself and return with new books for her to read. Papa wiggled his eyebrows as he sang silly songs, tied both her shoelaces and pigtail ribbons on the first day of kindergarten, brought cupcakes to school on her birthday until the junior high school principal stepped in to stop him, and when she grew too old and resentful of his unfaithfulness to accept such treats, he still attended all her tennis matches, debates, graduations, marketed for her business, and  _almost_  walked her down the aisle.

It occurs to Maka that her mama might be wrong - love isn't for naught. Sometimes.

"Papa, do you love me?"

"With all my heart."

Maka diagnoses herself as irreparably damaged in that moment. Hearing that she's loved  _so much_  shouldn't bring tears to her eyes, but her throat constricts and she hits the mute button inside her to suppress a howl, a cry, a reassurance, "I love you too. Did you love Mama?"

"I'll  _always_  love your mama." Rosy cheeked, he goes goofy faced, a tenderness reaching his eyes, oblivious to the contempt brewing in the pit of her stomach at the use of an absolute. "She's my only love."

"Then…" The ground underneath her must be shaking, but how can that be if none of the light fixtures wobble overhead, the frames unmoving on the wall? It must be just  _her_. "Why did you cheat? … Why did you let her go?  _Us_?"

"Because I made mistakes, Maka." He accepts it so  _easily_ , without a flinch, like he's had time to mourn.

Poor Papa, alone, simmering in his faults, remorse biting at him, all while he put up the biggest front for his angel,  _her_.

Poor Mama, alone, simmering in all her not-good-enoughness, responsibilities piling up, all while she fell apart in front if Maka, her only daughter.

"Mama was  _perfect_ , and you still couldn't be faithful," Maka fumes, the second-hand pain searing. All she can do is hold on and let it run its course - when the fire is out, maybe she'll grow again, like a forest after an inferno.

"I don't have any explanations. I think about it everyday and still don't know." Age lines cut deeper into his face than Maka remembers, the happy-go-lucky spirit ripped out of him. He walks to her, careful. "I'm a  _stray._ I'm sorry, Angel."

"I don't want to be your angel, I want to be your daughter," she says, voice gravelly, teeth chattering because her chin's quivering violently, the sorrow spilling out like the ink that colored her white dress black. "But it's hard, because I don't know how. I'm not  _perfect_ , Papa-"

"Oh,  _honey_ ," he murmurs, hugging her tight like he did when nightmares woke her at the age of five, when her mama was gone and Maka wanted only  _her_  but settled for papa, like when he would come home after a wild night out and she wanted only  _him_.

She missed hugging her papa. Maybe they'll do it more often.

They're not okay just yet, but maybe they could be, someday.

X

Doorknob cold to the touch, Maka grips it firmly, turning - and it's locked, unmoving, secure, keeping her out.

Of course. He wouldn't let  _anyone_  inst - he's not Papa, who's too trusting and naive. Soul Evans is cautious, reserved, gentle but rough when he wants to be, open when he chooses. Maka hadn't thought to clue him in on her ten-thirty pm epiphany to taxi cab over with her backpack under the pretense of wedding planning. She had acted on an impulse, so there's no need for disappointment to psych her out.

The door isn't locked because of  _her_.

Easier said than done, though.

Knuckles rasping on the cool metal surface, it's her turn to wait, hearing uproarious meowing and a low disgruntled voice telling the cat, "Calm down, it's no one probably, I swear if I trip over you again-"

Then she's face to face with Soul Evans. Ish. The height difference forces her to tilt her chin up, but the effect is unchanged nonetheless. She's hooked on him, thrilled to reap the benefits of this spur of the moment decision.

" _Maka_ ," he breathes, dropping his spoon, splashes of ice cream spraying out over the threshold and his bare feet, the entire pint of cherry vanilla almost following suit. "You're  _here_."

"It's me," she confirms, arms stretched out, spinning once to work off nervous energy and lighten the mood.

A head pokes out between Soul's ankles, yellow irises brightening with recognition.

Maka squats down to click her tongue at the cat, scratching her under the chin. "Oh  _hiii_ , sweetie. I've heard so much about you."

"Come in, do you want some ice cream?" Soul stumbles backward to let Maka in, Blair slithering around his feet like a snake. "A blanket? Food?"

"Water's fine," she says, rubbing her palms together as she hungrily scours his apartment, ready for a glimpse into his personal space. But save for a couch that faces the bay window and a chair scooted off to the side, the place is empty, feeling barely lived in.

It's nothing at all like their cozy apartment. Each had their own couch but tended to share the same one while they binged every episode of The OC, or played Uno, Soul winning every rematch Maka demanded, or he played Sims on his laptop while she knitted, . Succulents and other house plants that survived Maka's under watering tendencies added a flare of coziness and warmth. Aside from Soul leaving his clothes strewn around and plates littering the counter at the kitchen, where she follows him for a spoon and a water bottle, Blair still shackled to him, there isn't a semblance of their old life in here.

"I can't believe you're here," he muses, hungrily searching her face. What does he see?

"Thought I'd come by in person instead of calling tonight." She slips off her backpack, leaning it against the wall. "And, well, since it's Friday night, we could do some work."

"Good, because I've been talking to a  _cat_ , and I needed the human interaction." He motions around, well aware of his home's lack of luxury and basic needs. "So, this is it, my humble abode."

As if agreeing, Blair meows from between Soul's ankles, tail curved around his feet protectively.

"I'm in utter shock that you don't have a TV," Maka says, then busts a gut when he shows her his room at the end of the hallway, where a 70-inch plasma screen sits in front of his unmade bed. Crinkled wrappers, soda cans, and a single rose in a vase clutter his night stand, socks and other clothing draping out of his open dresser drawers.

_That_ 's more like the Soul she knows, and she tells him so, following him back to the living room.

"You know I can't live without it. I mean, I hangout in my room mostly anyway, laying in bed eating chips and douching around on the internet, watching videos and shit, so I haven't bothered with real furniture yet."

"At least you have this nice chair," she says, moving to sit back on it as Soul plops himself on the couch, shrieking when Blair jumps out and nearly scrapes her nails along Maka's left butt cheek.

"That's Blair's."

Maka rubs the back of her thighs, checking for scratches. "I see…"

"Make yourself at home," Soul says, patting the space next to him.

The similarities between today and the first time he came over to her office don't catch her off guard as much as the differences. Cagey couldn't begin to describe their temperaments. A speck of their old selves had shone through when he asked her to sit down with him, just like right now, and the nervousness still resides within her, but the pained clumsiness has given away to a certain bashfulness reminiscent of how they were  _before_ their wedding.

Hands clasped behind her back, Maka hesitates, also thinking about Soul napping on the loveseat at her office, how she nearly lost her self control.

Next time, she should ask before she kisses him.

"I'm making the guest book for Tsu and Wes's wedding," she says, retrieving her backpack, hyper aware of his eyes following her, hoping the goosebumps aren't obvious. "Did you get a hold of your photographer friend?"

"Nah, but he's probably out, I'll let you know when he replies," Soul says, scooting away to give Maka more room as she nestles on the couch, holding her gold ink and pens. "Daaamn, that looks nice, Maka."

"I hope they like it."

"I'd bet money on them  _loving_  it. They've raved about everything you'd done so far."

She can't look at him, heart pounding too loud. "How's the flower arranging going?"

"Awful," he moans, rubbing his face. "I'm thinking about running away and changing my name to Roul Emens. Did I tell you Wes wants a flower crown too? It's going to be white and pink, like Tsubaki's."

"Ohh, that's cute - so you and Wes are on speaking terms now?"

More growls from Soul, laced with frustration and guilt. The love starved part of Maka regrets springboarding into uncomfortable territory, but she's all too acquainted with Soul's propensity to coop up his problems unless she offers an ear.

"Pfft, nope, we're not exactly buddy buddy."

She frowns at the guest book, now lying open in her lap, understanding why Liz sat and listened to Maka as she cried - the distance is safe. Her friend's pain is  _her_ pain, but she can't hurt and heal for them. So Maka is there for him even if he doesn't open up, asking Soul to hold the ink for her while she sketches roses and prints quotes on the pages until her eyelids become heavy, head ending up in his lap, reveling in him brushing her bangs away.

It was silly to think they'd never be comfortable around each other again. After all, she doesn't believe in absolutes. Even becoming accustomed to Blair is a cinch. Her claws are too long and may or may not have punctured through Maka's shirt when she pounced and curled up on Maka's stomach, but it's okay, it's nice.

"Patti's throwing me a housewarming party," Soul's saying as Maka drifts to that space between dreaming and reality.

"After Wes and Tsu's wedding, mhmm," she hums, compromising with herself - she'll take a fifteen minute nap, then head home. "She already sent invites."

"Fuck, it's gonna be a mess, isn't it?"

Maka closes her eyes, Blair's fluffy fur like a blanket, Soul's feather touch the last thing she's attuned to before everything goes black.


	11. here if you need me

More than anything, Soul longs to press his thumb between her brows and iron down the worried rumples there as he and Maka stand in the hallway, working up the nerve to walk into the conference room and address the wedding party. She's gnawing on her lip too, and his mind follows, pining to do that to her with  _his_  teeth, but that's a long stretch away. He'd have to confess first and then ask if he could kiss her, but he's still waiting for the right time, so he pushes the thought away.

"I'm here if you need me," he says, watching her closely.

"The wedding's  _tomorrow_ ," she answers, a glint of panic shining in her eyes. "What if it doesn't go well?"

"This is what rehearsal dinners are for, to catch that kinda stuff. It's like any other wedding we've planned but like, this time the groom is a mega diva and has a lot of friends."

Maka isn't convinced, crossing her arms. "I'm going to vomit."

"I'll hold back your hair."

_That_  comment earns him a quick, heart fluttering smile. "Okay, take your place, Best Man."

Anxiety beckons, jumbling his stomach up like a puzzle in its box. Yanking the door open and walking down the aisle, all eyes trained on him, his gait, his posture, his everything. Liz, Patti, Kim, Jackie, the bride and groom-to-be, Maka's dad Spirit, and Wes's friends Mifune, Clay, and Akane  _stare_. All the way from Japan, Tsubaki's parents, her brother, and her cousin mingle with  _his_ parents, and a little girl frolics around, not attuned to the somber mood, flinging fistfuls of petals on the floor from her basket and singing a nursery rhyme.

"She's on her way," Soul reports, noticing his mother clutch at her heart. His father pats her on the head, kissing her forehead,  _relieved_. Patti stands on her tiptoes to whisper in Liz's ear, Kim apparently hearing and nodding sagely.

Beside a shell shocked Wes, Spirit pales, whiter than snow. "My little girl is on her way?"

"Yeah," Soul repeats, squinting at them, suspicion brewing. The realization that over a year and a half ago he had announced to these same people that Maka  _wasn't_  coming, that his wedding was  _off_  and that they should leave, maims him. Thank god that brand of pain doesn't manifest physically. He can hide it, even if first annoyance creeps over him at their reactions, then indignation at their treatment of him, like he's something fragile -

"Makaaa~"

She's gliding down the aisle when Soul swivels around, unsure whether he should snort at her scowling at Spirit or feel sorry for himself for missing out on her walking toward  _him_. Maybe Wes is right; Soul  _is_  a romantic little shit. By the time she's within earshot, greeting them all with a cheery grin, he's half dead, half resuscitated.

"Oh good, Angela already knows her role!"

Front tooth missing, Angela highfives Maka, jumping with joy Soul remembers having at that age. "I'm giving Mr. Wes and Miss Tsu the rings at the bottom of the basket too! That's what Daddy told me."

"Right!"

"Tsubaki calls Wes 'daddy' too," Patti whispers loudly.

Guffaws erupt from the younger generation, a stony faced Mifune helping his daughter collect the fallen petals.

" _Stop_ ," Soul begs all of them, deadpan, imploring his inquisitive mother, "Ask no questions and I shall tell no lies."

Maka snaps her fingers, and like magic, the wedding party falls silent. "Thanks for being here! I guess… we're going to start." She clears her throat, guiding them through the processional, pausing to scroll through her phone to clarify details: bridesmaids and groomsmen file down to the altar when the music begins, then Soul and his parents escort Wes down the aisle, followed by Tsubaki and her family. The officiate says things. Wes and Tsu vow stuff. Kiss kiss!

"The carriage picks up Wes and Tsu and takes them for a trip around the city," Maka finishes, "and while that's happening, the guests can have time to change or whatever as the staff rearranges the room for the reception an hour later. When Wes and Tsu come back, they'll take pictures, and then bam, everyone goes to the reception!"

Radiant in a sundress and a flashy necklace Soul hypothesizes Wes gifted her, Tsubaki's grin stretches five miles long, squeezing her parent's hands tightly. "I can't believe it! I'm getting married tomorrow!"

The more people chime in, their laughter giddy, their moods colorful, the euphoria buzzing, the more Soul withdraws into himself, jaw twinging from clamping it shut. His shoulders cave in, his father wasting no time correcting him, "Sit tall son, take pride in your appearance." Suddenly he's warped back to New Year's Eve, nameless, a nobody,  _lost_ , the world moving too fast while he slows down.

"All the guests should be in the hall now," Maka announces over Angela's squeals and Mifune's patient voice chiding her, over Soul's mother peppering her eldest son's face and wailing that he's all grown up now, at thirty-eight and a half. "Ready for your grand entrance, Mr. and Mrs. Evans-Nakatsukasa?"

The boisterous groomsmen and bridesmaids leave to take their seats at the dinner, Liz attached to Clay's arm - that's serial dater Elizabeth Thompson's MO, god bless her game. Soul moves to catch Maka, hoping to slip into the commotion alongside her  _before_  the guests cheer Wes and Tsu on, or whatever over the top crap Wes requested.

Except Spirit beats Soul to the punch. He swoops in, bowing gallantly, offering Maka his hand like she's royalty. And she is in Spirit's eyes, but Maka rarely accepts his unless she wants something, like to borrow his car or his teacher pass to the access the restricted library.

" _No_ , Papa, I'm going with Soul." Though she swats him away like a fly, she's  _torn_ , the gesture is half-hearted, hesitant.

"Maka, I can meet you there, no problem," Soul promises as he walks up, figuring the father-daughter time would do the pair worlds of good. "Or we can all go together."

Spirit relents, a miracle Soul never thought he'd witness. "I understand. I'll see you there, Angel -  _Maka_."

Appreciation softens the crease between her brows, lips no longer pulled taut into a glower. Seems like the key to cure Maka's tension is a little understanding from her papa. "Okay, maybe I'll find you and say hi?"

Soul hopes they can smooth the past over. After all, Maka doesn't  _hate_  her papa, only how he acts -

_Oh_. It clicks - maybe the same concept applies to Wes!

No characteristic overzealous scene from Spirit ensues, no extravagant display of his love or pride or devotion to the daughter he raised, no gratuitous reminders that Maka finds worthless. Spirit pinks with approval and waves, wandering off.

Quiet, Maka looks after her father, lips parted like she's on the verge of calling him back. It's highly inappropriate to want to kiss her right now, when she's vulnerable and pensive, but his hand burns with phantom heat, recalling the feel of her neck underneath his palm, her mouth -

Out of the blue, Tsubaki's cousin rushes up to Maka, latching on to Maka's hand like she's about to kiss it, starstruck. "Hi, hello! I'm Tsugumi, Tsu's told me so much about you! She even sent me the article the Death City Times wrote about your business!"

"Really?" Maka clasps her free hand over the girl's, equally as excited. "You read the article?"

_What article_? Soul's head spins. Obviously too much occurred during the the year he lived in La, possibly missing out on too many events and nuances he might never fully know.

And that's okay. He has all the time in the world now that he's back in Death City.

A quick scan of the remaining people alerts Soul that Wes isn't his obnoxiously animated self. Now wiggled free from their mother's doting, he's linger at the edge of the gathering, introspective.

Soul musters up courage and some humility, praying that it lasts him through what will most likely make or break his relationship with his brother.

"Wes, can I talk to you before you go?"

His brother exchanges a look with Tsubaki, who's deep in conversation with both sets if parents. The two operate like one single unit, probably reading each other's minds. Might as well get used to it - she's going to be around for a long, long time, and while their family is enriched because of her, it's weakened by his and Wes's differences.

"Do you still want me to be your best man? It's fine if you don't," Soul blurts out when they convene in the corner. Taking himself out of the weddingwould feel akin to being disowned, but Soul will stomach it, will compartmentalize it like he does everything else. "Just be honest with me. I know I haven't been the best man."

Wes wilts, his usual light hearted demeanor nowhere in sight. Instead, a deeper brand of infrequently displayed misery rears its head. "... I haven't exactly been the best brother to you, either."

Flat out agreeing would be an asshole move on Soul's part. On the other hand, lying won't dig them out of this bottomless pit they've buried themselves in, and Soul can't bear participating in Wes's wedding if Wes  _hates_  him, and he says so, plain and simple.

"I don't hate you, Soul." Wes scrunches his face like he's about to cry. "You're my baby  _brother_. I helped Mom and Dad change your diapers and feed you when you were born. You were the apple of my eye, too."

Fidgeting, Soul accepts the love, imagining himself holding it like his palm, testing it out. He carries around his feelings about Maka in a huge suitcase, so why not do the same for his brother? There's room, if Soul allows it. Getting used to the extra baggage might prove to be arduous, but…

It's worth it.

And so is this chance he's taking, opening up. "I hate fighting with you, so, let's duke it out once and for all, you and me. The grand slam-"

"Let's talk, Soul," Wes says. "I propose some rules: listen, wait for the other to finish before responding, and no yelling."

Soul agrees, both bracing himself to hear rational grievances and preparing himself to lie down and take a verbal pummeling. "You first."

"I'm honestly upset that you haven't been supportive of me and Tsu," Wes sighs, revealing nothing new to Soul. "My happiness seems to annoy you, and that feels... gross. My own brother doesn't like that I'm happy."

Ice freezes Soul's blood - yeah, he can see how Wes thinks that, because at the core if everything, it's accurate. Jealousy is venom.

"And then when I point it out, you get defensive and don't let me talk. You don't seem to listen. I've been patient, but it's starting to feel like you actually hate me."

_Not you_ , Soul wants to say,  _just bits of your personality._ Which sounds more awful.

Wes trudges on, level headed, with the air that he's rehearsed this before, simmered in it. "Your apologies feel not… genuine, because you turn around and do the same thing  _again_ , and apologize, and then you do it  _again_. So I couldn't accept your flowers."

"Wanna know something?" Soul says after a stretch of clumsy silence. "I didn't buy those for you. They were regifted, and  _I_ didn't even accept them. Guess karma got me."

Despite the tension, the gravity of his complaints and their issues, Wes snorts at the irony, rubbing his face. Tired. "I'm… not surprised. Looking back, maybe I shouldn't have snubbed you, and I'm sorry… go ahead, your turn, have at me."

Gulping, Soul plays a movie in his head to keep his cool: Wes taking him to the park, which is Soul's earliest memory. Wes teaching him the violin, Wes inviting him to the movies, Wes coloring with him, Wes taking Soul's side during arguments with their parents.

And yet, through all that, Wes is still a stranger.

"Your positivity kumbaya shit sounds a lot like criticism to me," Soul starts, careful to clip the resentment off. "'You should do this, don't take it like that, don't worry, blablabla.' You don't understand that I get over stuff by complaining."

Wes nods, Adam's apple bobbing the sole indicator he's gulping hard.

"I feel like you brush me off when I try to tell you what's bothering me. I don't know if you realize it Wes, but we're different people! It's like you think I'm  _you_. Doesn't seem like you know I even exist. It feels shitty."

"Oh." Dazed, blinking like he's not sure how or when or why he's here, Wes steadies himself, slumping back against the wall for support. It's like Soul took a needle and deflated him. "I… didn't even realize. I thought I was helping you."

"I took it like you were telling me how to handle my shit with Maka. I'm a grown ass  _man_ , Wes." But his voice seesaws, high and low under the pressure of keeping himself together.

"You're my baby brother too," Wes objects gently, "and you have feelings. Love yourself, Soul. Just be honest."

Time to take the knife out of the wound. To rip it out. "When Maka  _left_  me... That hurt."

"Tell me, Soul... I'm here."

"Kinda felt real, y'know?" He kicks at the wall, relishing the sting of stubbed toes. "We were living together, and it felt nice as hell, and I forgot we were getting married because of a pact, not because it was… real. I had my vows ready, too." He rubs the back of his neck, focused on his shoes. "I guess I shouldn't have said yes to help plan your wedding, but I wanted to be with Maka, honestly. I don't even like planning that much."

"You did it for  _Maka_ ," his brother repeats, shell shocked, like a fist smashed into his gut. "Not for me."

Shame could kill. "Yeah. I'm… sorry, but saying sorry sounds so dumb. I don't know what to say to show you that I know I was  _wrong_."

"I… don't blame you?" Surprised, Wes's penchant for looking for the silver lining cushions the stab of reality. "If Tsubaki-"

"Speak no evil," Soul warns.

"You're right…"

Not a night goes by that Soul doesn't think about his and Maka's starry night, 11:11 blinking on his digital alarm or phone, stirring loose a sharp object inside him. It's called grief, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"One of the first conversations Tsu and I had was about you," Wes says, pausing until he catches Soul's gaze. "I told her that you and I were close even though I'm so much older than you, but that sometimes you felt far away. And she said - I'm telling you this in confidence, so don't say anything…"

Soul listens, but understands Wes needs a response before continuing. "Yeah, got it."

"She said she and her brother have the same kind of relationship. He's older than her and looked out for her, but bullied her in their teenage years because she did better in school and their dad decided to give her the family flower shop instead of him."

"Damn," Soul murmurs, wincing - parental rejection changes a person for the worst sometimes, the damage profound.

"We're all different people, so it's not exactly the same as our situation, but she and I bonded over how much we love our brothers and felt like we just don't…" Wes interweaves his fingers together. "Mesh with them."

Soul winces. "I can't lie Wes, if we weren't tied by blood, I don't think we'd be in each other's lives."

Flinching, shaking his head, chanting  _no no no_   _no_ , Wes shrivels up, tortured by Soul's observation. But it's  _true_  - neither have any hobbies in common besides music, and even then, their personalities fit as well as flowers survive in the arctic: they  _don't_ , not at all. Their relationship stands as brotherly love, almost  _parental_  love.

"So what now?" Wes searches for answers, skin between his brows wrinkled, reminding Soul of Maka.

Huh. Maybe Soul's the common denominator, a source of pain.

"We can start over… we don't have to be friends. We can be brothers. And you get to be the center of attention at the rehearsal dinner." Soul slaps him on the back, shoving him toward Tsubaki, who's waiting on a pew close to the entrance. "See you around, I guess."

A certain sadness paints Wes's features as he stumbles away, something between regret and ambivalence, but Soul maintains the positivity enough for the both of them - they'll be okay eventually.

X

Weaving through the tables is a lot like pushing through the crowded train compartments on the bullet train that connects Death City to Las Vegas -  _awkward_ , especially staring the guests straight in the face as he searches for Maka, who had left while he talked to Wes. Finding her sitting with Jackie almost gives him a coronary though, dodging waiters as he scrambles to them.

"What's happening? Shut up, Jackie!"

Scoffing, Jackie pulls herself up to her full height - a whopping five feet and four inches, equipping her most vile I-dare-you-to-try-me evil eye. "You're always accusing me of something! For your information, I was telling Maka that I hope she catches the bride's bouquet and meets some handsome rich young man with lots of love to give-"

"Your nose is twitching, you're lying!"

She blows a raspberry, pulling down the skin beneath her eye.

"We're fine, Soul,  _really_ ," Maka promises, beaming as evidence. "I was telling Jackie that I listen to her radio show every morning."

"I don't need this shit," Jackie huffs, dismantling her glare briefly to wave bye to Maka, flipping Soul off as she hops to the next table over, where Kim and Patti are folding their cloth napkins into animals.

Soul drops into the chair next to Maka.

"You okay?"

He's fine, just fine, his usual aversion for large crowds and the cacophony of chatter stimulating him to the point of delusions, feeling like his skin's crawling, like he needs to escape before he rips his flesh off. Disassociating. Drained, and he wants to take refuge in his bed.

Reaching over, Maka smooths down his collar, which he has apparently been walking around with tucked into his shirt. "You don't seem fine."

He would shrug but his neck muscles are debilitated by Maka's touch. Is that how sue felt on New Year's after he caressed her, leaning in for a kiss? "Tired I guess. I got up early to start putting the flowers up in the ballroom. And I just had a come to Jesus moment with Wes."

Maka's mouth rounds in a perfect 'o' of amazement, soundless.

"On the bright side, he doesn't hate me," he says, winking at her, adding touch of irony to cushion the hard truth behind their conversation. "We worked it out. I'm an asshole, he's an asshole, and from now on we're going to be more honest."

"I know you love your brother so much you can't stand it," she says. "I'm glad you made up. Just in time for the wedding, too!"

_That_ rings a bell. If only Soul had listened to her before - she's fond of repeating that phrase, but unfortunately he's never really stopped to dissect it, because it's  _true_. Soul can't stand Wes, competing with him in a one sided sibling rivalry tug-of-war, and, well, the love is lost somewhere between being blinded by Wes's flawlessness and their communication blunders.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Soul cants his head to the entrance he stumbled through five minutes earlier. "Wanna see what I've been working on all day?"

He leads, taking her away from people to be alone with  _him_ , to share the work he's done  _alone_. Admitting to Wes that he thought of his future sister in law more as he decided on flowers than his own brother wouldn't help their relationship, so he refrains from telling Maka that detail, too.

Maybe Soul should ask Maka to close her eyes, just as he did when he brought her to Tsubaki's flower shop, where the string lights waited for her, but the effect is ten times more potent with her eyes open. They glide through the tall double doors, her breath left outside. Soul squeezes her shoulders as she stares in wonder: veils of gauzy silk thread stream down from the ceiling, thick, vivid, leafy rose bushes interlooped in between, pink budding everywhere. Metallic gold orbs drape down, reflecting the light down onto the tables. At the end of the aisle, a floral arch sits on the platform, with roses  _everywhere_.

She curses softly, impressed. "It  _does_  look like a celestial garden!"

"I'm glad I didn't fall off the ladder, but it was a close call a few times thanks to Jackie thinking it's funny to shake the damn thing."

" _How_ long did it take you?"

"Been here since four am," he replies. "Only stopped to go to the meeting, talk with Wes, take a leak, and find you."

"I'm honored you'd break away from this to fetch me," she muses, vivid green fixated in the ceiling.

As much as he wants her to  _stay_ , he knows she's just as exhausted as he is - the knots in her neck give her away. "C'mon, I'll walk you home, I can do this later-"

She shakes her head, resistant to budge. "I want to help you."

"Thanks, but nah, you need to rest up for the big day."

Ugh, cute isn't a good enough word to describe Maka Albarn. "But the flowers are the most important part!"

"It's mostly done, just gotta…" Brain fart alert. "Finish. Add the finishing touches. Some flowers and stuff."

" _Soul_ ," she whines, pouting, and when it doesn't weaken his resolve, she swaps that tactic with bribery. "Please? I'll take you to dinner, on me."

He glides a thumb over a large trigger point near her neck, and he presses down on it, firmly. "I can take myself out."

"I'll do your laundry - ahhh, that feels  _good_ …  _ah_ , I'll do it for a month."

"Maka, we both know you can't do laundry right." He chops her gently on the head, reluctant to let go. Flustered to have elicited such a  _throaty_  response from her with his hands, however, he has no choice. "And anyway, I probably won't be finished until past your bedtime, so it's not ideal. Tomorrow's going to be a long day for you."

"But you're going to have a long day too," she counters, undoing her half ponytails, combing her fingers through her hair. "So it makes sense that I help out."

"Excuses," he drawls, opening and closing his hands at his sides. "You just want to spend more time with me."

"I do," she admits, no sign of taunting in her tone, or in the tender way she touches his arm.

" _Oh_." Death, please don't let his face glow brighter than a neon sign. "I guess that would be okay."

She perks up, both the room and his mood lighter because of it. "Cool, so I'm staying with you."

He's nervous, hands shaky. "Okay, let's drop by your place so you can bring your things."

X

"It…" Sand curdles in his throat, that infernal, stupid sand coming to sign his death certificate in the form of a emotional choking hazard. "The place hasn't changed much."

Maka's apartment is  _home,_ so he's glad that time hasn't changed it. Nostalgia hits him. The kitchen, the barstools by the counter, their  _couches_ , their television, pictures of the two in frames next to it,  _his_ paintings fixed to the wall, the same scent of stick scent diffusers: a mixture of honey, vanilla, and almond.

It  _hurts_.

"Mmm, Mama isn't home much, what with sleuthing and whatnot, and Papa's here almost everyday, but…" She knocks quietly on the ajar bathroom door before pushing it open, peering inside. "He's not here…"

"Probably still at the dinner. I can't believe Wes asked him to be a groomsman."

"They play golf every weekend."

Soul coughs, rolling his eyes - Wes gets along with  _everyone_  - and trails after Maka, idling in the doorway to her room. The curtains  _are_ still there, and so is his EAT headband, hanging off her headboard, the succulents he bought her perched on the windowsill, glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

It's the same.

She yanks a gym bag out of her closet, throwing in toiletries and heels and extra clothes, just in case. "I'm hungry, I didn't get a chance to eat."

"Same…"

So they cook, and that's the same too: Maka requesting utensils and Soul supplying them, like a surgeon and her assistant working in resonance. Soul taste tests, insists the chicken needs more salt, and Maka howls, "It's chicken parmesan, get over it!" Soul grabs the shaker anyway, she wrestles it away, and by the time she wins, the food is cold but it's delicious even microwaved because she eats her whole plate  _and_ part of his. He's too distracted by the murder mystery to notice, but he doesn't mind, no, not even when she splashes dirty dish water in him as they clean up, not even when she rests her head on his lap afterwards.

"Tomorrow's the day," she singsongs. "It'll be like heaven."

What should Soul do with his hands? He wants to touch her. "I kinda hope one of the flowers falls and lands on someone, like, my mom or dad or Wes, or on the cake-"

" _Soul!"_

"In my defense, it probably won't happen because Wes is perfect."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Maka says, looking up at him. Soul absolutely, thoroughly, undeniable, madly  _loves_  being this close to her - from away her eyes appear brown, but up close,  _god_ , they're dark and beautiful, so green.

"Maybe I'm jealous. Wes says I am, and he's always right…" Soul presses his thumb between her brows, smoothing her worry lines down - or trying to at least. "And he kinda knew about it before I did. Talk about no self awareness at all. My bad."

"What's there to be jealous of?"

"Just…" Even his ears must be turning red, the heat scalding his face quickly scorching his very being. He covers her eyes, for safety and for solitude. "Stuff."

"Oh," she says, disappointment thick. "Just stuff."

"I mean… he's perfect. But he's not."

The levee breaks then, flooding him in sand sand sand, so much sand, sand for days, years, centuries, and it pours out of him like ink spilling on paper or a white wedding dress that never saw the moonlight. Wes told Soul he didn't like a core part of Soul's personality, and while it's okay now because they talked it out, it fucking  _gross_  that Soul is still so  _jealous_  of him, that he can't  _change_ , that his only brother will always hate that specific detail about him.

He cries then, a little, Maka hugging his arm, eyes closed and looking like an angel. It's not fair, he tells her, it feels like he's losing his brother, like they broke up because they're too different, because Soul brims with envy - Wes snaps his fingers and he gets the perfect life, and Soul tries so hard.

Maka hums, consoles him, and they don't end up returning to the resort. The desert darkness chases away the light, and by the time ten thirty rolls around, they're ready to pass out. Maka offers him one of her oversized cotton t-shirts and sweatpants, and after blushing through her commentary ("pffft you look so cute!"), they wash up, Maka jumping in her bed.

Couch for him it is.

"Just stay here," Maka says, pulling her comforter up to her chin, hair splayed over her cartoonish moon and star patterned pillowcase. "Stay."

Hard to say no when she's asking, allowing. Impossible. Nights are liminal spaces. They make the things that are hard to say in the daylight easier, like, I missed you, come closer, and taking action is less daunting, too. He bridges the gap between them until only a sliver of space remains.

Maka wedges her hand under his chin, murmuring that he's so scruffy and warm.

"Cold?"

Even in this darkness, he can see the edges of her drowsy grin. "No. I just wanted to touch your face."


	12. The Garden of Eden

Saturday morning finds them tangled in her sheets and her hand splayed over Soul's chest. There's a certain charm to how she had gravitated toward him during the night, forehead ending up pressed against his shoulder. He had rolled onto his back, head tilted toward her, hand over hers. It feels so  _natural_ , so right, like they've done this millions of times before.

Now she's hoping they forget what it's like to sleep apart.

Propping herself up, she cups his cheek - so  _prickly_ , she could get used to this - and taps it gently, whispering his name. "Wake up… wedding time."

"Don't wanna," he mutters, nuzzling into her palm. "Wes can hire a new brother."

"What about me? I don't want to go without you."

"Stay," he says, the pull of the word wondrous. Skirting her responsibilities is a sin she promised herself and her clients never to commit, but as a suggestion coming from Soul, it's a given, an easy, alluring solution.

They could just  _skip_. Stay inside, stay together. After all, the mutual understanding between herself and Soul screams that their relationship runs a risk once they leave her apartment. They might revert to the clumsiness that  **plagued** them at the beginning of the year, when he freshly returned to Death City. They could lose each other.

This security, however natural, is too fresh,  _fragile_.

She chooses to smile instead of kissing his forehead. "I'm going to shower and get ready."

Anything almond scented had been ruined for her since he relocated to LA. Washing up with the bar of soap Soul had bought her at the farmer's market only spurred a heavy sense of loss, but she vows to replace that sorrow with this newfound memory in the making - waking up next to him, better than they were  _before_.

Whens she emerges, tugging self consciously at the ankle length dress that hugs her hips and accentuates her lack of breasts, Soul has changed back into yesterday's clothes and is in the process of banging around in the kitchen, the smell of eggs wafting to the rest of the apartment.

"We have to scarf these down because I just remembered I have a cat child at home and she needs to be fed and loved."

And again, Maka is endlessly jealous of a  _cat_.

Pink stains his cheeks when he finally turns to look at her, but he stuffs his mouth with toast while she towel dries her hair in between bites of her breakfast. Eight rolls around, the lackadaisical morning draws to a close, and a distant panic grapples at her as he cleans up the kitchen by himself so she doesn't ruin her dress. The perfectionist in Maka is restless, distressed: she's not ready, she's going to be late, what if something goes wrong, what if...

"Can you help me with my hair? I'm thinking of an updo, but…"

"You don't know how," he finishes. Of course he does - he knows her well, probably expecting to follow her into the bathroom, sticking closely to her like perfume. Hopefully he's the kind that lasts, because scents fade and she and Soul have already been through hell.

She watches him drag a comb through her hair in the mirror, trying to learn the tricks of the trade, but his hands are distracting.

"You're saving my life, Soul." She twiddles her thumb as he works, touch light and confident. "I never did learn to do my own hair. Papa always did my pigtails when I was too little to do it myself, so that was the only hairstyle I knew for the longest. Now I know two… that one and a half ponytail."

It's a mistake to make Soul laugh, because it rings in hear ears and sends shivers down her spine. "You and Spirit did seem to get along better yesterday at the rehearsal - er, well, he seemed less… overbearing."

"Mhm," she agrees, glowing. Happy. Excited for the future and the changes it might bring. "We kind of talked. I think I hurt his feelings, but… but I think I'm less mad. A little. We're not completely okay but it was a baby step."

"Damn, that's good to hear, Maka. Feels good to be honest, right?"

More things hang unsaid, but they're not as debilitating. She and Soul still have plenty to discuss, but as he had said: problems can't be mended in one sitting. It takes  _time_. Perhaps it's a never ending thing they'll do, reconvene to  _talk_  and work it out together, grow alongside one another.

"Thanks again, Soul."

"I'm your man, Maka," he reassures. "Best friend, business partner, hairstylist, former roommate…"

_Boyfriend_ , Maka finishes in her mind, chiding herself for the wishful, schoolgirlish thinking, even if it's not too far off from becoming a reality. At least it feels like it, fitting together perfectly in her bed - his hand rests her cheek, guiding her to look at him, snapping her out of her daydream.

The air shifts. She thinks he is about to stitch their mouths together when he runs his fingers stroke through her scalp, readjusting bobby pins, fluffing, preening. Lowering her gaze, she focuses on not decoding his unsure breathing as he unhurriedly smoothes her hair until every lock stays in its designated place.

Minutes later, Soul steps away to admire his work. Maka, light headed under his scrutiny, glances into the mirror – gasps at the reflection of an elegant, loose curled side bun.

"How did you know how to do this?"

"I've been playing too much with flower crowns," is his easy reply, accompanied by a shrug.

She hums her approval, giddy, getting stupid butterflies and dangerous thoughts. She forces herself to un-notice that he is tall and handsome, and delicately sweet. And _near_.

Even if he hasn't fessed up, his actions strengthen Maka's confidence that he's the one that sent the flowers and the card:  _I still love you._ No more doubting herself! How can his gentleness be anything but romantic? And he kissed her back on New Year's Eve, started to kiss her again -

Maka balls her fists, the emotion overwhelming. "I still have to put on my makeup…"

Momentarily tense as his arm glides around her bare shoulders to escort her out, she tells herself to un-think and un-know this whole morning, last  _night_ , in case it's only temporary. In case she's wrong. Tells herself to settle back into familiarity: considering him as simply Soul.

But she fails, and for once, it's a good thing. He's more than a best friend. More like a soulmate, her opposite, witty and funny when she's not, observant and introspective. Patient. He sits on the couch with her and holds up her mirror while she fills in her eyebrows and dusts her cheeks with blush, keeps track of the time as Maka tucks her mascara wand away in her bag.

"Welp, I'm sure it's hot as crap outside, and riding the motorcycle will mess up your hair." He heads over to the window, swinging his head from right to left to check out the traffic below before twisting the blinds closed. "Should we get a taxi?"

"That's so thoughtful of you," she chimes, trying out his sarcasm, struggling with her heels - it's not that she rarely wears them, because she's a fan of heeled boots, but fine motors skills aren't easy to master when she's still half asleep despite spending five minutes scrubbing her face in the shower.

Soul moves soundlessly, already crouched down and guiding her shoe strap through the buckle before she can register that he's the reason for the spike in her heart rate. After all this time of carrying around these feelings for him, of being near him, she thought the nervousness would ebb into a fulfilling calm. A buzz.

But, they could go through the motions for  _years_ , as they are right now, and it won't mean as much if she doesn't  _confess_.

The thought of it makes her chest bump like an unbalanced dryer.

"Yeah, didn't think you'd want to look like a bird made a nest on your head."

She aims to karate chop his head, the height difference becoming too much of an obstacle, cupping his jaw instead, squishing his face together like a fish. "Haha, what did you say? That the cost is on you? Great, thanks!"

Joking, joking, of course, but Soul insists to pay her half as she holds the car door open for him when the cab arrives, the five seconds out in the sun searing her arms. He refuses to fasten his seatbelt ("It's a five minute ride, Maka!") and she'd wrestle him into submission if only she didn't feel naked in this dress, if she could be guaranteed not to undo her hair. Dress bunched up in her hands as they ascend the stairs, it occurs to her that  _this_  could have been their life together if she had shown up to their wedding.

Maybe. They're an odd pair: a dolled up, petite woman and a disheveled, gloomy looking man, and his neighbor's incredulous stares add further proof of their mismatching appearances.

"They probably think I'm a serial killer because I'm always threatening Blair," he mutters as he flips the switch, his empty apartment sluicing with light. Aside from the water and food bowl next tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, Maka doubts anyone who walked through would believe someone lives here.

"Here kitty kitty kitty kitty…" No cat in sight, Soul drums a fast paced rhythm on the counter, relieved when Blair shoots out from beneath the couch but jumps into Maka's unsuspecting arms, purring. " _Rude_! I'm the one who's going to feed you."

Maka drinks in the affection until she hands the cat off to Soul, glancing down her front and noticing black cat hair on her chest like miniature scars. She sees  _black_ , black ink, and suddenly the dress isn't baby pink but  _white_ , lacy, more expensive, more precious. Her hands shake, frantically rubbing away the blemishes without a plan in mind. "Oh  _shit_ ,  _no no no!_ Not again!"

"It's fine Maka, I promise," he soothes, giving Blair the stink eye and putting her down next to her bowl. He holds Maka's hands in his, shushing her, reminding her that that was then and this is  _now_ ; he has tape somewhere they can use as a lint roller. "The cat hairs aren't permanent, they'll come off, it's going to be okay."

But none of it registers. Solace doesn't exist when there's an alarm blaring in her head, reminding her that she's not perfect, not careful enough, not mindful. She sabotaged her own wedding and now she's doing the same to her best friend, to Wes, who treats her like family, who probably couldn't find it in his heart to be angry with her even if she purposely wrecked his wedding.

_Ugh_ , not this again, this anxiety cutting her up inside like a ball of barbed wire. She had been doing so much  _better_  lately too, but  _nooo_ , she's at square one again, frozen as Soul pats tape on her, not even cognizant enough to flush when he runs it over her breasts, down her tummy. He's nothing but respectful and Maka loves him  _so so so_  much, she could kiss him to make sure he's real, because she doesn't feel much of anything except the deadness that follows a panic attack.

And guilt. Overreacting again, like always, those god  _damn_ absolutes showing up when they aren't wanted or needed. But Soul's here, tape discarded, her dress cleaned and good as new, Soul rubbing his palms up and down her arms, Blair meowing at his feet. Ears flattened against her head, looking up at Maka beseechingly as if to say  _I'm sorry_.

There's no way Maka can be mad at a  _cat_.

Soul offers Maka cold water, and sipping at it  _does_  mitigate her troubles, except now they're running late and he still needs to dress up. Traffic might pick up, the stop lights might run slow, there might not be parking - she could go ahead without him, but leaving without him isn't an option. What if they lose each other again?

"I'm okay, thank you Soul.  _Really_ , I'm fine now." What she can't admit is that she's  _not_  okay because his hands drop to his sides. They should stay on her. "Is there anything you want me to do while you get ready?"

Sheepish, Soul sinks into himself. "Uhm, I actually… have to get ready at Wes's place."

She raises her eyebrows, steeling herself for an ugly revelation. "Why?"

"Well, it's a long story, but…" He takes in a deep breath, and out with it comes the truth: "Blair used the groomsmen tuxes as a scratching post one day and Wes almost threw me out the window but he had mercy and didn't! He had another set rush ordered but he didn't trust me enough to keep them so he kept them at his place and I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but I didn't want to worry you! Everything's okay now, don't be mad!"

Soul Evans drives her  _crazy_. "What!"

X

" _Wes_ ," Soul calls out gruffly when they reach Wes's place, Maka glimpsing an apologetic flinch on his face for the grain of habitual irritation that trickled into his voice. He thumbs through his keys, sticking one into the keyhole, knocking loudly before pushing the door open. "I'm here for my tux. I'm coming in!"

The view out of the penthouse's wall to ceiling windows never fails to make an impact on her, reminding her of how  _small_ she is compared to the mountains on the horizon, that there's no shame in appreciating the little things. From here, she can see the whole city, the cloudless sky, the Nevada sun blessing them on this day.

"I want big windows and a view like this if I ever move," she says, wondering if Soul would like the same.

He's not close enough ask, though, and she's not brave enough to speak. He wanders out of her sight, down the hallway. "Wes, we have company. Please don't walk out here naked."

"It's my house, Baby Bro, but I'll be glad to wear a towel over my junk if that makes you feel better!"

Though she can't see either of them, the sound of a pillow smacking against something - or some _one_  - is unmistakable, the subsequent satisfied chuckles reassuring Maka that no ill will lurked behind the attack.

Soul's amusement shines through in his snickers: "You  _dumb_  melon farmer!"

"I sure am, and you're  _late_. Tell me, did I hear Maka come in with you?"

She cups her hands around her mouth in a megaphone fashion. "Hi, you did! It's me!"

A hearty hello reaches her, followed by more commotion of doors opening and closing, Soul's sarcastic undertones, Wes's sprightly timbre. The latter slides into view, righting himself before he does the splits, socks apparently working too well.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he says, similar to Papa, Maka once again comparing the two, finding the good in her father by comparing him to a gentlemen. "I'm excited to see Tsubaki. It's not going to be the best day of my life until I'm with her."

Behind him, Soul peers at them from around the corner, towel slung over his shoulder. "I'm gonna use your shower, Wes."

"Hurry, then. And you can use my hair products too, I know how you are about your hair."

"Screw you," Soul says, disappearing again.

"What language," Wes muses, grinning. "Thank you for bringing him to me. He needs all the help he can get. Tell me - what's next for Maka Albarn after today's festivities?"

If he had asked that a few months ago, she would have responded with, "Leaving town _."_ She can't get over Soul if she's constantly near him, near his family, when everyone in her life is linked to the Evanses. When  _she's_ his family. Take her relationship with Papa as an example: he's never far, but sometimes space cures what conversations and time can't. Distance hadn't helped the situation when he lived in LA because she had actively been trying to mend their friendship without  _talking_ , walking on eggshells.

Grieving.

But, now everything's different. Night changes people, after all, and so does touching. Funny how she can't imagine a whole day without Soul when two months earlier she had been going out of her way to  _avoid_  him. She still has  _so_  much left to say - how much she likes his dimple, how much she misses living together, wants to bake desserts with him, wants to make his side of the bed.

Confessing to Wes that she burns for Soul to be a part of her upcoming plans is embarrassing, though. So she opts for mystery. "Maybe I'll take a vacation, and then get back to work."

"You're… oddly predictable." Wes pulls on his earlobe, carefree. "Listen, Maka, can I be up front with you?"

She's scared, yeah, but she can't say no.

"I just want to thank you for being such a great friend. Planning my wedding, introducing me to Tsu, being there for my little brother…" He pauses, gulping, squinting away tears. "You've done an outstanding job because you're an outstanding person. You're amazing, you know that right?"

"So I've been told, " she says, thinking of Soul.

"And lots of people love you. Even Tsu's parents adore you, and Tsugumi thinks the world of you. I really  _do_ think of you as a sister." Wes glances back to the hallway, listening. Maka hears the shower turning off, Soul humming. Wes continues: "I love you. Tsubaki and Liz and Patti and Kim and Jackie love you too. Your mom. And your dad does, too."

There's sand in her throat somehow. Wes hit a sore spot; she swipes at her eyes, wondering when it won't hurt any more. Maybe what Soul said about taking things one day at a time applies to this, too. "Ahuh, I know."

At last, Wes asks what Maka saw coming: "And Soul loves you too."

If  _only_. Maybe. It's a possibility.

"And you love him too, right?"

"I do." It's becoming easier to admit, but not to the person who needs to hear it the most. And even if she's reading him wrong, there's nothing wrong with how she feels, right? She's only human, making mistakes, so many mistakes - but she also makes  _rights_. Good decisions.

"So you love each other," Wes sums up innocently. "But have you told each other?"

"Yes!" The bathtub incident plays again in her mind's eye, Soul  _not_ saying anything in response to her confession - had he misconstrued the real meaning behind her confession, taking it as a platonic admission? Maybe she could have been clearer, like Liz said, leaving no room for uncertainty. "But… I don't know if he knows how much I  _really_ care."

"I don't think even  _he_  knows how much he cares about you, but I know it's already a lot."

She can't help but beam at the possibility.

As if beckoned, Soul materializes, waving them over with a cant of his head as he saunters to the front door, hands stuffed in his tuxedo trousers. Foxy would be a great word to describe him, because  _damn_.

"C'mon, Beauty, let's go - I wasn't talking to  _you_ , Wes."

Maka is  _weak_.

X

For once, she's not crying from sorrow.

Maka stands off to the side of the platform, semi-hidden behind the creme, silky drapes covering the walls. Aside from Angela mistakenly throwing the plastic symbolic rings at the bottom of her basket into the pews and showering petals directly onto the couple, which everyone found endearing, the wedding's gone beautifully.

Both clad in matching flower crows, Wes and Tsubaki have eyes for no one but each other, radiant, committed.

"I do," Tsubaki says, Wes echoes her when it's his turn, and when they kiss, Maka  _cries_. Part of it stems from the fact that she could have been an Evans too, but that's not what prompts  _more_  tears - it's because now her family is more complete.

X

Someone catches her arm after Wes and Tsubaki run down the aisle, people piling to follow and wave them off, confetti fluttering to the floor.

Maka knows it's him before they make eye contact. "Soul!"

"Hey." He's  _shy_ , worrying his lip, fingers combing through his hair, messing it up. "I thought we could spend some time alone? I have something to tell you… but, everyone has to be gone. It can only be me and you."

They hold hands, Maka's tummy tingling. Absentmindedly, tracing the lines on his palm, she burns the moment in her memory. Letting him lead her to a clothed table off to the side where they wait for the last of the guests to leave, Soul picks confetti off her hair, balancing one on the tip of his finger, telling her to close her eyes and make a wish.

Hmm, what else could she want? Maybe a thousand more words that mean  _I still love you_ , so she can tell him exactly how she feels, maybe more strength, definitely more nights with him.

"Keep your eyes closed," he instructs, and she does, deciding to kiss him when this is over. She can't stand it anymore - if she can't find the right way to confess, she can use her lips, finish off what she started at Wes's New Year's Eve party, put his hand on her neck.

When she opens her eyes, he's holding a bouquet of red roses out to her, looking demure, so  _cute_. "I made you these."

She could  _cry_ , but she accepts them instead, smelling them, the petals soft against her nose. "I got your other ones too! From our anniversary!"

And in an instant, the mood dies.

Soul tries to mask his utter confusion by blinking too fast, too much. "What other ones?"

The smile is permanently tattooed on her face, though the mirth behind it dissipates. "You know, the ones you had delivered to my office…"

_Awkward_. Uncertainty flashes on his face, caught off guard, mincing his words wisely. "Mmm… at the time, I didn't know where your office was..."

"Oh."

Well, isn't she  _stupid_ , why hadn't she thought of that sooner? He had to ask for her address, didn't he? Complimented her decor, said the loveseat was comfy, because he had  _never_  been there or stepped foot in her office until after the New Year. And Soul wouldn't have ordered flowers to remind her of the day she  _bailed_  out on their pact - no, he'd never intentionally harm her with such a passive aggressive act, such a  _lie_.

"It wasn't you," she breathes, the realization asphyxiating. Walls are closing in on her,  _her_  maze walls, and she's going to be crushed underneath her own tangled up barriers because they're swaying, falling down. "But, it doesn't make sense, who else could it have - oh, it must have been  _Papa_!"

A shriek threatens to escape her body, the battle to keep it contained scratching her throat, only the silence roaring around them. She had imagined slow dancing with Soul at the reception, but a haze quickly forms around that hope. Too bad there's no pounding music, no bass rewriting her heart rhythm. Of course it was Papa - he invades her space  _always_ , oversteps boundaries, acts without thinking!  _Lies._ Hurts her,  _always_ , even if he means well.

No one notices her world crumbling because no one's here to witness it except Soul, who seems  _so_  far away, at the end of her tunnel vision, unreachable.

"Why would he do that to me? The card didn't sound like him at all. He would have said 'I love you best of all' not..."

Not what she's been wanting to hear:  _I still love you._

She  _chokes_ , literally  _chokes_ , face  _hot_ , eyes stinging. If she blinks, the tears will let loose, so she stares and continues to smile bravely with the genuineness of a porcelain doll.

"I'm sorry - I didn't send you any flowers. But, what did the card say?" Desperate - that's what Soul is, reaching out to comfort her, freezing up when she backs away instinctively.

Hair falling out of the side bun he had meticulously brushed as Maka shakes her head, she hugs herself to numb the pain thundering through her core, breathing heavy as she turns to leave. "I have to go… Somewhere not here."

Damned if this isn't a déjà vu a replay of the New Year's kiss, the second one, except his hand isn't scorching against her neck. She  _is_  disarmed, but not pleasantly, a little high off the thrill despite the fear that sprung up and paralyzed her. No, she's heartbroken, disillusioned, her bubble burst, her hopes up.  _Stupid_. She should have asked him outright if he had sent the bouquet. Should have been smarter, more open, less afraid, shouldn't have  _assumed_  or read too much into his loving gestures and  _looks_.

God, the  _looks_. How could she have been so  _wrong_ about her best friend?

"Are you coming back?" his voice calls after her, but it's more of a plea:  _come back soon, I'll wait right here._

No doubt lies in her mind that he's excellent at waiting, his patience limitless. He had waited long after he should have at their wedding, late into the night they both love so much. Soul Evans keeps his promises.

And maybe that's just it - maybe she needs to follow through with at least  _one_  promise too, starting with herself.


	13. I still love you

"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service at this time," the automated voice says in Soul's ear for the hundredth time. "Please try again later."

From his bed, Soul flings his phone across the room like he's skipping rocks on the sea, burying his face in Blair's shiny fur coat. "She's not answering. What should I do?"

"Meoww."

"Mee-owww," Soul parrots, rolling over onto his side, bringing his cat along for the ride. "You don't have answers either, huh?"

She snuggles up against him, a protective paw on his chin.

"She said she wanted to be alone, so I'm giving her space, but what if it's the wrong thing to do? What if I  _do_  go there and she gets… more mad? Sad? I don't know what's happening."

He closes his eyes, Blair taking advantage of his vulnerability to escape, tiny paws pattering toward the kitchen.

" _Meowww_ ," she says, the sound of her bowl scraping against the hardwood floor.

"I'm starting to think you only like me because I feed you."

But that's okay. Blair is a  _cat_. Besides, she's cute, and when -  _if_  - he spends another night at her place, he'll bring Blair along so he doesn't have to leave. Waiting is agony though, and when he's pouring cat food into her bowl and simultaneously fighting her off his shins, he decides he's had  _enough._

No more bottling his feelings up. He can open the bottle or toss it away, and he decides the latter will move him closer to the truth. Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst - rejection, an "I don't feel the same" - Soul grabs his keys and helmet.

Time to wear his heart on his sleeve… again. Obviously his plan to confess last night went awry after giving her the bouquet. Damn, he's such a failure.

"Blair, I'm out, keep an eye out for Maka… yeah, yeah,  _meeow_  to you, too."

X

"Is Maka here?"

Tsubaki and Wes blink at each other, thoroughly bewildered.

"No, we haven't seen her at all. Are you okay?"

Soul shoves his way into the penthouse, scanning the living room and then the kitchen for signs of his best friend. Besides the clothes strewn on the floor - he  _truly_  is too asexual for this, really - and two plates of Eggs Benedict half eaten at the table, the place is spotless.

"We're on our  _honeymoon_ ," Wes reminds pointedly, offering Soul a glass of sweet tea anyway. "And our plane leaves in three hours."

"I'm here because some  _asshole_ apparently sent Maka a bouquet on our anniversary and she thought it was me and now everything's gone to hell in a shitty handbasket."

The couple stares at each other, communicating telepathically. Soul snatches the nearest fork and finishes their breakfast, chomping on it instead of succumbing to his envy - he and Maka used to be that way,  _before._ He can't wait for there to be an  _after_.

"It was me," Tsubaki says, easy.

Soul snaps his head toward her so fast he's sure he's given himself whiplash.

"Yeah, it was me." Her grin is cheeky, sly, no trace of remorse present. "I sent the flowers."

"I promise he's not usually this slow," Wes says when minutes roll by and Soul remains unresponsive. "I think… he's in shock? Might need a little push."

Tsubaki laughs. The reason why she and Wes get along like two peas in a pod is clear to Soul: both take pride in being mischievous, underhanded, meddling  _jerks_ , though she exercises more tact and self restraint. Both make her more dangerous.

"When I was calling my clients in my flower shop back in Shibusen, before I moved here, I found the order you placed. I was going to throw it away, since the wedding didn't happen, but then Wes saw it and he got the idea to send it anyway! He delivered it himself."

"Sure did," Wes laughs, refilling his glass. "I felt bad stalking Maka, but I couldn't let her catch me delivering the flowers because that would be awkward."

"Fuck you  _both_ ," he seethes, chair scraping back as he stands. "How could you play with us like that?"

"I thought it would help," Wes defends, mood flipping completely. Frowning. "I thought Maka would call you up like, 'oh mah goood I still love you too' and that you'd come back to the desert for some smooches."

Tsubaki's giggling, hand clutching Wes's knee, whose remorse lasted about four seconds.

"Maka doesn't talk like that... and so what if I would have jumped on the next plane out here?"

Cue  _more_ uproarious laughter, their foreheads touching, Wes sliding his fingers through Tsubaki's hair.

"Your little brother is the cutest," she says, as if Soul isn't present. "So sweet."

"The best, mhmm, he's always been a sort of tsundre."

"I hate both of you," Soul reiterates, secretly glad they took matters into their own hands, furious neither thought to include Soul so that he would have handled the situation better, more irritated at himself for not going through with his idea to send flowers a few months ago, too. It had been there, tucked in his memory banks in the haze of wedding planning and brooding, and it faded away.

"You guys played yourselves."

"Never," Wes teases, but by the time Soul finishes his recount of last night, Maka walking away before he could confess, literally holding herself together, Wes is visibly sick with worry.

"Her phone's… disconnected?" an incredulous Tsubaki stares at her own cell like it'll ring any second. "Not even straight to voicemail, it's like the number doesn't exist anymore."

"I'm sure she's fine." Wes takes her hand, kissing her knuckles. "Maka's tough, she's probably going on vacation -  _yeah_ , that's it, that's what she told me." He turns to Soul, full-on lecture mode activated. "Go to her, Little Bro. Honor your feelings, and do us all a favor and confess, because we're all tired and have lost a lot of money betting on when it'll happen."

"I will… if I can find her. She wasn't at her place, her office, the bookstore, the mall. None of our friends know where she is, and Spirit isn't answering his phone either." He narrows his eyes, disgruntled. "Maybe you can use your stalking skills to help me track her down."

"I was  _helping_!"

X

Soul drives into the night and decides to go  _home._ To Maka. To the apartment they shared. After such a long time heading the other way -  _into_  the heart of the city instead of the outskirts - the journey is a lot like another kind of step forward.

Checking coffee shops, hotels, the movies, local hospitals, the police station, Spirit's apartment, the pet shelter turned up nothing. The police won't take a missing person's report for either Albarn until forty eight hours have passed since they were last seen, and even then, adults have the right to disappear if they want to, so the cops probably won't follow up.

Setting up camp in front of her door seems like a good idea until he envisions one of her neighbors either calling the state guards or a dog peeing on him. Unfortunately for him, he doesn't have a spare key - he gave that to her when he moved to LA.

He knocks, and the door creaks open easily.  _Huh_. Maka would never  _not_ lock the door. Earlier it had been secured tightly. His stomach drops straight through him, his blood running cold. What if she's hurt?

"Helloooo, Maka?"

Everything's as he and Maka left it except for a blanket rumpled up on the couch, the television playing for no one. The sliding door to the balcony stands open, curtains billowing in the summer breeze, carrying smoke inside.

Soul trudges in, longing for a bat.

"Oh, it's just you," he says, loath to leave Spirit Albarn alone in this state. He's slumped over the railing, the air about him  _off_. Soul recognizes broody bastards when he intrudes on their alone time, after all. Takes one to know one. "Where's Maka?"

"Yeah, it's just me," Spirit echoes, glancing over his shoulder and puffing out smoke, the cigarette between his fingers coming into plain view.

"I thought I smelled something. You started smoking again?"

"Never really stopped." A deep inhale, savoring the burn in his lungs, probably. "I'm not good at hiding things, though."

"Apparently you have many talents, because she thinks you had quit cold turkey. She's gonna be  _pissed_." Visions of Maka printing out flyers with her dad's mugshot to every store in the city crosses Soul's mind, forbidding them to sell the man cigarettes. Or worse: Maka shutting  _down_ , the dawn of a new era dedicated to shunning her dad. "I'm surprised she hasn't smelled the smoke on you yet."

"Me too. Then again, she doesn't like to be near me too much." He puffs once, twice, sighs, contemplates. "Did she tell you she gave me a hug for the first time in four years?"

It's news to Soul, who can't help but feel left out of such an important advancement in Maka's life. The Maka from  _before_  would have turned down millions of dollars worth of bribes to avoid contact with her father. The paralyzing, deep-rooted fear of losing her seizes Soul until he rationalizes it off: he's not entitled to know every intimate detail of her feelings, her days, her life. She's growing and bettering, and he's here when she needs him, when she's ready.

"Yeah, she told me I broke her heart," Spirit goes on, puffing.

Soul scoffs. "You knew that already though."

Spirit shoots him a dirty look, rubs out the cigarette, and like the clouds splitting to reveal the sun after a storm, he's charged up, grinning widely. "She also said she didn't hate me!"

"Of course she doesn't hate you, old man." Soul steals the extinguished butt from Spirit's grasp, waving it in his face before chucking it over the banister. "She just hates how you act. There's a difference."

"My little angel is so smart! She told me she loves me as a father but hates my guts as a husband."

"You're... a strange, strange man, Spirit," Soul monotones. Anyone else would have reacted negatively - sulked, cried, cursed, beaten themselves up, but Spirit Albarn takes it in his stride, seeing the good in every bad.

"So…" Soul glances back inside, in case she passes by, miraculously  _here_. "Where's Maka?"

"I dropped her off," Spirit says out of the blue, now sullen. He fishes out another cigarette from his pocket, expertly lighting it.

Soul refuses to believe his ears. "What?"

"Dropped her off at the train station."

"... Why?"

Spirit shrugs,  _infuriating_ Soul - what a shitty time for the man to start respecting his Maka's boundaries.

"She's leaving."

It's like millions of pin needles are pricking Soul. "Where?"

"She wouldn't say."

Soul  _curses_ , words collapsing into themselves. "Start from the beginning."

"Watch your mouth," Spirit says around his cigarette, no anger behind his voice. So serene, like he's reporting the weather or ordering dinner, not reliving his only daughter's departure. "I wanted to dance with Maka at Wes's wedding because I danced with her at my wedding to her mother. She was two months old and balder than an old man, but she was so cute! I always wanted to dance with her again, but when your wedding fell through…"

"You didn't get to have your last dance with her," Soul finishes for him. "Even though you cried when she told you we were getting married. Said you didn't want to give away your little angel. Weirdo."

"Yep… anyway, I went looking and looking but I couldn't find her, right? So, I came to see if she was here, but she wasn't. I figured she was with  _you_ , and I decided to stay until she came back. And then… She caught me smoking out here."

The ultimate betrayal to Maka.  _Ouch_. Regret springs through Soul for his inaction - he should have followed her, made sure she was safe. Walking a fine line between being  _overbearing_ , like her father, and being aloof is a hard to master.

It's in Soul's nature to fret, to ask stupid questions: "Was she okay?"

"Hell no, she was riled up about something. She wouldn't tell me what, not that I blame her..."

_Soul_ , probably, because something else besides sand caught in his throat when she had brought up the flowers, the card. A demon wrapping its fingers around his throat, taunting him. Their wedding didn't  _happen_. Therefore, those gifts shouldn't have happened. It didn't make sense, and even after learning of Wes and Tsubaki's heinous plot to play cupid, he faults himself for not blurting out his feelings then and there.

Idiot.

"When she was a little girl, she used to tell me everything, but…" Spirit shrugs, his lack of tears scaring Soul, whose never seen him this sedated. "I forget she's an adult sometimes and that things between us are always going to be rocky... I did some pretty lousy things to her and her mama."

"Yeah," Soul concedes, earning another glare, this one equally short lived. "But - to risk betraying her, she said - she said you had talked it out?"

"A little, but this time… She hates me for sure now," Spirit continues, eerily  _stable._ "She thinks I sent her a bouquet and card for your anniversary. She said she didn't need my pity and kicked me out, but when no taxi cabs would come for her, she let me drop her off at the train station."

So she's  _gone_. The pit in Soul's stomach has been right all along. The loss runs deep, the finality of it hitting him like a truck. He fixates on his hands - just yesterday she had held them, and now she's beyond his reach.

"I don't think she's coming back for a  _long_  time." Puff puff, burning himself from the inside out, the only indication that Spirit is crippled with pain. In this faint lighting, he's aged a hundred years, fated to live a hundred more.

"But what about her business? You? Her mom?"

Spirit shakes his head. "She's not coming back, Soul. She's just like her mama."

Maka went without her mother for  _ten_  years before she returned, communicating via postcards, letters, calls, and as technology advanced, with text messages, vlogs, video calling. As selfish as he is, Soul can't endure that amount of time without Maka, his  _best_  friend. To spend another night without her after sharing her bed -

No, no. He  _has_ to make things right.

"I'm getting her back," he says,  _promises_ , a quick check of the time reassuring him that he's finally caught a break.

Five am.

Show time.

X

The radio station is a ghost town, most early morning employees ironically night owls and therefore not alert enough to question why he's running through the hallway, helmet discarded mid stride somewhere along the path to the DCMA8 studio.

For once, luck is on his side. When he throws himself through the door, Jackie is  _not_  live, instead in the middle of doodling on a sketchpad, apparently in between songs.

" _Fuck_ , Soul, what the-"

He drops to his knees, pleading. "Put me on air."

"Why?" she wrinkles her nose, feigned disgusted rubbing Soul the wrong way, even if they joke like this all the time. "No one wants to listen to your emo songs."

"Nooo, I mean, put  _me_  on air. I want to talk. It's Maka, Jackie, her phone's still cut off, and Spirit says she left Death City! I have to talk to her."

She squints at him, doubtful, not understanding the emergency. "So?"

"So  _fuck_ you, Jackie, I'm being serious-"

She taps her pencil on his forehead, beat steady, stern. "I need to know why you're trying to get me fired and mess up my career!"

_Okay_ , maybe she has a point, even if she's being an insufferable smartass. "I'm gonna confess."

Jackie snorts, guffawing, back to flipping through the pages in her sketchbook. "Yeah, okay."

" _Really_  really, Jackie." He shakes her by the shoulders a bit, making her cackle harder. "I'm  _sick_  of this roller coaster, and I'm worried, okay?

"Soul," she begins, setting down her pencil, ruffling his hair like a mother consoling her injured child. They both know he won't like what she has to say, but she says it anyway: "It's  _local_  radio, Soul. If she's not near enough, if she left town… she won't hear you. Local radio signals aren't that strong. You know that."

Yeah, he knows that, but he also knows he can't  _drop_  his feelings for Maka. "It's worth a try."

"Yeah, alright, I  _guess_. But only because not having to deal with you whine at me about what ifs for the rest of  _my_ life - and yours - is more important to me than any job," Jackie says, jumping out of her chair, pulling him up by the armpits and into the seat, shoving the headphones over his ears in a flash. "When I give the go, start talking. I'll announce you." She tucks her hair behind her ear, leaning forward into the mic. "We interrupt this broadcast for an announcement from a guest speaker! This is for you, Maka Albarn..."

Then she gives him a thumbs up, and it feels a lot like diving off a plane.

"Hey Maka? It's Soul."

He's nauseated, met with radio silence, literally radio silence, dead air. Next to him, Jackie waves her hand in a circle, motioning for him to go on.

" _Talk, dumbass_ ," she mouths.

"Maka, it's me, Soul. I hope you're listening. What I wanted to tell you yesterday at Wes's wedding is, well - I still love you. I can't tell you exactly when I started but I probably won't stop any time soon… unless you want me to."

Out of respect for his privacy, Jackie turns her back to him, but he catches a glimpse of her in the window to the sound team, hands pressed flat against one another. Like she's praying.

"Maka, are you listening? I still love you. When you come back, if you do, can we start over?" His stomach hurts. His heart hurts. "I  _did_  send you those flowers and that card. I pre-ordered it before our wedding day, but Tsu and Wes delivered it anyway, even though we weren't married."

He pauses, forgetting she isn't there to respond.

"Those were my words, though. I still love you."

It's so quiet. Jackie is a statue, unmoving.

"Can you let me know you're okay? We're all worried about you. Even if you don't feel the same way, I still love you, Maka."

Nothing. There's nothing worse than silence, than talking to the public and not knowing if the one person he wants to reach is listening. Minutes tick by, Jackie screens the calls that pour in, and as each one proves  _not_ to be Maka, vomiting all over her work space becomes an eminent danger.

Then his pulse stops when Jackie screech whispers beside him, kicking him, punching his arm, pointing to her headset: "Oh, it's really  _you,_ girl! I'll put it through."

Maka's voice is crisp, clear. So close, yet so far. "Soul? I'm fine, I'm fine!" When he closes his eyes, he can see her vivid grin, cheeks pinched. "I heard everything you said - did you mean it?"

"Yeah," he says, holding his breath.

"Can - can we meet at my apartment, so we can talk?"

He's already waited this long, what's another few minutes, a few stop signs along the way, a red light or two or six? It's not night anymore, but dawn takes on that same reality altering quality as he opens her door, the light falling into the apartment and onto Maka, who's standing there with a shy, secretive smile, doing what he does best: waiting.

Before he can think twice, he's rushing to her, footfalls vibrating through his bones, and she melts a little at seeing him, suddenly shy but determined nonetheless, and he opens his mouth, ready to pour out, to confess again and again and again -

She shakes her head, covering his mouth with her hand. "Wait, wait…"

He swallows sand down, finally ridding himself of it, and nods.

"If everything you said on the radio was true, then..." She pauses, her brows furrowing - a sign she's thinking, a sign of inner turmoil. "Remember when I told you I loved you when you found me in the bathtub, when I didn't go to our wedding?" Cue a shaky breath, a brave breath. Her eyes go glassy and she gulps, regret  _real_  and jarring. "I was being serious - why didn't you say something then?"

He's  _shocked,_ like she drove an icicle through his chest, the burn cold. "What! I thought -  _fuck,_ I thought, since you always said it, I thought…" He's a fucking  _idiot_ , but, as Wes said, he shouldn't be talking down to himself, should honor his feelings, respect himself. But that's difficult to accomplish when Maka tells him she meant what she said  _every_ time, that she interpreted his silence as  _rejection_. "Maka, I couldn't tell you I love you, because then it would have been  _real_ , and..."

"It was all real to me," she insists, her intensity fascinating to Soul, who wants to kiss her so  _bad_. "The wedding, the New Year's kiss, everything!"

_God_ , it's been obvious, painfully so - the inexplicable nervousness, the excitement in her eyes when they planned their wedding, the New Year's kiss, the fleeting looks, the sense of being home when they're together.

He's an idiot.

"That's why - that's why I ran away when you said you didn't send the flowers! I thought they were some kind of… confession, but I wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, and this  _whole_  time, since you came back from LA, I've been trying to get over you, because I thought you didn't feel the same-"

"I always felt the same, Maka. That night, I didn't realize - I'm so sorry. I didn't see it, you said it so much I thought they were just words and I was afraid if I said it I'd push you away-" Sorrow cuts him off, and he fights it, choosing to revel in this newfound honesty. "I wanted to fix it, I promise, I still love you, I love you so damn much, I meant what I said - I still love you."

"Really?" There's awe in her voice, and he wants to kiss her throat. "Are you… sure?"

_Yes_ , he promises, insisting he'll kill all the spiders that crawl into their house, that he'll be there when she's sick, that he'll grow alongside her, that the absolutes don't matter to him either. "I meant it when I said I would have married you, even if the wedding wasn't perfect. Truth is, I've been jealous of Wes. It's not right to compare, but I found you way before he found Tsu, and I want the same for us."

"Me too, but - I'm  _scared!"_  She winces but doesn't look away. "I don't like  _not_  knowing how things'll turn out, and relationships are tricky! Look at my mama and papa… they didn't make it. But we're not them, are we? I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to do in a relationship, but - we could work through it together right? Right?"

Some hurts never fully heal, but at least he can  _be_ there for her, be  _here_ , so Soul touches her hair, traces her eyebrows, admires the bridge of her nose, rubs along her arms until he's clasping her hand, gently moving it aside. "Yeah, we're Soul and Maka, and we make a great team. Maybe we suck at communicating, but we're already working on that!"

She bites her lip, a hint of her mischievousness shining through, making his heart flip, flip,  _flip_. "Well… What if I said I still love you, too?"

_Oh_ , oh, oh… his heart is suddenly  _full_ , but why is he suddenly so sad? Maybe it's all the time they lost, that she had to leave, that he couldn't do this in person, that she deserves  _better_. Maka Albarn returning his feelings - it's  _absurd_ , impossible, but here she is, holding on to him like a lifeline.

Ahh the hurt feels so  _good_ , so right. "Then I'd ask - can I kiss you?"

And then all he sees are freckles peppered on her cheeks as she pulls him down, her eyelashes fluttering, and the dark, dark green of her irises. He closes his eyes, and all he feels is  _Maka_.


End file.
